


Outside the Lines

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Art, Detective Castiel, M/M, Mechanic Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 25,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean loses something, Cas finds it, Zachariah's a creep, and everybody hangs out at Balthazar's coffee shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wednesday, November 21 (Dean)

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thanks to all the folks who beta'd this thing. Not sure how 25k took seven months to write, but there you are.
> 
> Updates M/W/F!

Dean keeps nodding as he sneaks a glance at the clock on the opposite wall. Every time he looks he’s _sure_ it’s been at least the five minutes left until 7, but instead it’s stuck solidly between 11 and 12. Closing time would let him kick the woman currently yelling at him about her repairs out of Bobby's shop and there’s really nothing he wants more right now than to _not_ be talking to her, especially not with that tiny dog-thing staring at him from the rim of her bag.

Why customers think they can drop their ugly-ass cars off the day before Thanksgiving and expect to pick them up that Friday morning is a mystery he has yet to understand. _They_ obviously won’t be at work, so why should _he_ be? He might have plans.

Of course, his plans for the weekend mostly include sitting either on his couch or on a barstool, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Look, ma’am,” he interjects when she pauses for a breath, “There won’t be anyone in the shop tomorrow to work on your car. The doors will be locked and the lights will be out. The first shift starts Friday at 9 am, and you’ve got at least five hours of work on that car. So you can come in Monday and it’ll be ready by then.” He glances at the clock again as she flutters her hands in outrage, face reddening. _6:59. Almost done._

Bobby comes up out of nowhere behind her, glowering. “We’re closed,” he says bluntly. “We’ll see you on Monday.” He gestures towards the door. “Have a _great_ Thanksgiving.”

She huffs, turns on her heel and exits, slamming the door behind her, and Bobby shakes his head and locks it. “Well that was just a barrel of laughs.”

Dean snorts. “Customers, man. This job would be great if it wasn’t for the customers.”

Bobby chuckles. “Go on, take off. You sure you don’t want to come out with me to Ellen’s?”

“Nah.” Dean avoids Bobby’s gaze. “Just gonna sit this one out. Don’t want to be a third wheel with you guys.”

Bobby grumbles and turns, but Dean knows he hit a nerve when he sees a blush rising in his cheeks as he rings out the register and pockets his keys. Dean shakes his head, wondering whether Bobby’ll ever get the nerve to actually try anything with Ellen. He grabs his flannel and follows Bobby out the back door.

“Dean–” Bobby’s got that face on, the one he wears when he’s trying to resist the urge to be the dad John never really was for Dean. "You don't have to spend Thanksgiving alone. I know it was kind of a bummer when Sam said he was staying in California, but– you ain't alone, boy. You still got us."

Dean runs a hand through his hair, leaning on the sleek black car behind him. "Yeah, Bobby. I know." He opens the door and sits. "Thanks. Say hey to Ellen and Jo for me, all right?”

Bobby sighs. “Yeah, all right. You stay safe.”

Dean nods and closes the door, watching Bobby get in his truck and pull out.

He sits for a few minutes, contemplating heading home to his empty apartment to have a beer and watch TV or reread one of the novels he’s read a thousand times or doodle or write or do a thousand other pointless things that won’t make a damned difference in his mood. He’s still gonna be alone, in a silent apartment, and it’s gonna be that way for the next 48 long hours. 

_Gotta suck it up,_ he thinks, but he lingers in the shop a few more minutes, flopping down on the couch and pulling out a battered notebook from his back pocket. He flips to a blank page, thinking about the woman he’d just battled in the shop.

He draws an outline, trying to capture the wild tangle of her hair and the flickering in her eyes, and can’t help feeling a little better as he draws in devil horns and a forked tail.

_Met a chick in the shop today. She didn’t seem to get that we get holidays off too. Maybe she thinks poor people are a different culture and don’t celebrate Thanksgiving? Or maybe she’s just an asshole. What the fuck is wrong with people, anyway? I hope her tiny dog bites her in the face._

Feeling a little better with that out of his system, he tucks the notebook back in his pocket. Not better enough, really, to feel good about facing his apartment, but all right enough to leave the parking lot at least. He settles into the Impala, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of the leather and grease that will always signal “home” to him. “Least I still got my baby here,” he mutters, running a hand over the dash. “You’re never gonna leave me for some chick in California, are you?”

He turns the key in the ignition and puts it in gear and the car answers with a rumble.

He’s feeling more and more sorry for himself as he nears his apartment and turns off the car. His mood darkens further as he unlocks the door and stomps into his dark living room, stubbing his toe on the couch and flipping the switch up and down a few times before discovering the lightbulb must’ve burnt out.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, then repeats it with more feeling. “ _Fuck._ ”

He finds the desk lamp and flicks it on, dimly illuminating the dusty corners of the room. It’s an impersonal space now that Sam’s gone; the posters on the walls had been mostly his, and Dean’s books don’t fill more than a quarter of the shelf space. A lone paperback dangles limply over the edge of an empty shelf and tumbles to the ground as Dean passes by. He growls in frustration and picks it up, shoving it in his bag.

The bedroom is even worse, because it’s got the stuff Sam didn’t take that just reminds Dean he’s gone. There’s a map in the corner, crumpled from falling behind the dresser, that tracks their trips across the country with their dad the last few years of his life. Dean picks it up and smooths it out, sitting on the bed with a thud. His finger traces the last line, from Kansas to Sioux Falls just a few years earlier. That’s where the line stops, and Sam’s drawn a smiling face next to the final dot.

He can’t just sit here alone for the next however the hell many hours before his next shift. He nods to himself, stands, and walks out, slamming the door behind him. The Impala’s waiting for him, gleaming and familiar as usual, and he backs out of the parking spot, and heads for the center of town.

There’s a new coffee shop on the main drag; or at least one he’s never passed before. He’s driving aimlessly through Sioux Falls and looking at the lit up houses, depressing himself watching cars pulling into driveways and people leaping out to greet their families and friends. He’s just passed what he’s sure are two brothers grinning at each other (and boy does that stick a knife in his chest) when he spots the shop’s lights on in the business district ahead.

“ _Sip_? That’s new,” he says out loud, glancing at the passenger seat. It’s empty, and he remembers why he’s alone in the car. “Fuck.” Sam’s only been gone two months and he’s already losing it.

He pulls into a spot and stares in the window. There’re a few customers with laptops, each with a mug and some with cookies and pastries. 

_Might as well give it a try, I guess,_ he thinks, sliding out of the car and walking to the door.

The bell jingles as he enters and the smell of warm pastry and sugar overwhelms him. It’s exactly the kind of place he would normally hate, full of overstuffed chairs and not enough light, but there’s what looks like a strawberry pie in the display case and he can’t resist its dripping edges. He heads to the counter and glances around, hoping to find a staff person to order from, and jumps when a slick voice sounds from a lot closer than expected.

“Can I help you?”

The voice is bored, flat and British, and Dean turns to find a tall, thin man in a v-neck shirt so deeply cut Dean’s pretty sure he can see the top of the dude’s navel poking out. His name badge reads _Balthazar_ , and Dean wonders what kind of parents would inflict a name like that on a kid.

“Uh, yeah. Can I get a coffee? And a slice of the pie?”

The man rolls his eyes and sets down the magazine he’d been flipping through. He steps around the counter, leaning on the top of the display case and giving an insincere smile. “Of course, _darling_.” His eyes sweep over Dean and seem to find something lacking. “It’s strawberry rhubarb today. Ice cream on the pie? Yes?” He sighs dramatically at Dean’s nod and reaches down for the scoop. “Vanilla or strawberry?”

Dean grins at him. He’s getting pie, and the dude’s attitude can’t even touch that. He takes his coffee and his slice of pie (with vanilla ice cream, of course) and retreats to the far corner of the coffeeshop, pulling out his novel and his notebook and watching the customers go by. It looks like it’s starting to rain and each successive customer is damper than the last, and a few of them seem at least somewhat interesting. Dean settles in for a long evening of people watching. It’s a hobby of his, and he’s not sure if it’s creepy, but it passes the time and keeps him entertained. Balthazar’s just as dismissive of all of them as he was of Dean, and Dean feels even better as he watches customer after customer be cowed by the barista’s scorn.

His pie is long gone and he's halfway through his coffee when the door bangs open and a man storms in, soaking wet and shivering, a trenchcoat dripping where it’s draped over his arm. He's in a suit that’s too broad at the shoulders and a little too short at the ankle. He stalks over to Balthazar and halts in front of him, glowering.

Balthazar leans back against the counter with a smirk. "Why Cassie,” Dean’s head shoots up at the name, but his ex is nowhere to be seen, “you _never_ visit me. And here I thought I was your favorite."

Cassie-- _weird name for a dude,_ thinks Dean, _but all right_ \-- keeps staring, slamming his hands down on the counter. The man’s glare is intense, pinning Balthazar in place like a moth in a display case, and neither moves for a long moment. It's Balthazar who breaks eye contact first, and Dean can't help but chuckle at the discomfort on the barista's face.

Castiel keeps glaring, stepping even closer to lean over the counter. “You sent another man to my office. _Another_ man who thought he was on a blind date.” He leans even closer, eyes narrowing. “And this one was part of the mafia family we’ve been chasing, as well as having an open warrant, so thank you for that. I had to have him arrested.”

"Fine.” The barista rolls his eyes. “I'll stop it. But--" Balthazar sighs and lowers his voice, his face honest and open for the first time Dean’s seen all evening. "Castiel, you can't be alone forever."

The other man tilts his head. "Maybe I don't need an orgy every night like some people."

If Dean wasn’t interested before, he is now. He drops all pretense of not watching the drama in front of him unfold and leans forward to listen.

 Balthazar’s grin is back, leering at Castiel. "Maybe not every night, but everyone needs a nice orgy every once in a while. Does a body good."

Castiel lets out a long sigh, shakes his head, and strides out, leaving his overcoat on the counter.

Dean watches him go, waiting for Balthazar to call him back and give back the coat. When he doesn’t, Dean shakes his head and bends back down to write. _Not my business._

There are a few more customers who spark his interest as the evening progresses. The first is a blonde who walks in purposefully just a few moments after Dean settles; she’s got a brightly colored laptop and a sweater vest in an eye-burning shade of lime green, and she’s typing quickly while muttering under her breath.

Dean leans forward, trying to catch a phrase or two of whatever she’s so intent on writing. He leaps back so quickly he almost tips his chair over when he finally parses the phrase “ _his member was swollen with pleasure_ ” and he swallows quickly, glancing around for anything else to distract him. He’d really rather not get too interested in what she’s writing.

There’s another guy coming in just as he turns; this one’s short and intense with amber-colored eyes that settle on Dean for a long moment before the guy greets Balthazar with a salute. He doesn’t even have to order before the barista hands him the largest, most heavily sprinkled drink Dean’s ever seen. He settles in a corner and flips through a newspaper, chuckling to himself, and Dean tries not to catch his attention again. _Dude gives me the creeps,_ he thinks, and shudders.

The final customer of the night comes in an hour after the other two have left, after a long stream of hipster after hipster with the occasional man or woman in business casual. She’s a weary sheriff in uniform who just orders a large black coffee with a side of “ _No remarks, Balthazar._ " Balthazar gives her what might be a genuine smile and tells her he hopes her shift is dull. She smiles back and nods in agreement, then heads back out to her squad car.

Dean tries not to think bitter thoughts about where each of them is headed tomorrow. He’s pretty sure none of them will be spending Thanksgiving alone.

Balthazar finally kicks him out at 9 with a wave of a hand and a trite cliché. Dean delays leaving as long and he can. He gathers his book and mug and napkins, drops his plate in the bin, wipes the crumbs from the table and examines the artwork lining the walls as if considering a purchase, but finally Balthazar holds the door open and glares. 

“Leave.”

Dean leaves, barely clearing the threshold when the door slams behind him. He wanders back to the Impala, climbing in. As he turns the key, his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's a text message from Ellen: _“Get your butt to my house, Dean. You're not spending Thanksgiving alone.”_

Dean thinks about arguing, but he's learned not to mess with Harvelle women when they've made their minds up about something. He’ll never admit it, but there’s something comforting about being ordered to join in. He types out a quick reply and puts the phone away before checking that he's got a change of clothes in the back of the car. _No reason to stop home, I guess,_ he thinks, turning towards route 70 and the Roadhouse.

It’s an hour drive, long enough to make it through a good two and a half tapes, and he’s in a much better mood by the time he’s a tape or so into the drive. Sam texts, saying he’s safe at Jess’s house and that he misses Dean, and Dean has to stop the car for a moment to take a deep breath and pull himself together.

_It’s not like he hasn’t been gone for two months already_ , Dean thinks, angrily scrubbing at his face. _He’s got his own thing going, his own life. He’s growing up and leaving me behind. It’s what’s supposed to happen._

He ignores the little voice inside him that says _Not on Thanksgiving, though. Not Sammy. And not yet._

He texts Sam back, telling him to eat some butter and meat and shit and letting him know his own plans have changed, and resists the urge to call him just to make sure he’s all right. _Gotta cut the apron strings sometime_ , he thinks as he reluctantly tucks the phone away and pulls back out onto the road. _Might as well be now._


	2. Wednesday, November 21 (Castiel)

 

Castiel is not having a good week.

In fact, he’s having a terrible week.

It all started Monday morning when his partner and cousin Uriel was marched out by the FBI. According to the news reports (because it’s not like the FBI told them anything) he had been taking bribes from Lucifer Abramovich to ignoring the family's activities in Sioux Falls.

The agents had pulled Castiel aside into a small, windowless room that he’d never seen in his years at the precinct and questioned him for hours, refusing to tell him why. They’d then told him he needed to vacate his office for the next week so they could go through all their shared files and paperwork, leaving him to sit out at a desk usually reserved for temps. The computer he’s been given is ancient, with a screen that flickers just slowly enough to drive him mad, and a mouse so sticky he’s amazed he can lift it from the pad.

Between the lack of his own stringently organized files, the distractions of being exposed in the main office, and the limitations of his technology, he’s so frustrated that he lets out what’s almost a growl when a hand taps him on the shoulder in the early afternoon. He spins in his chair and glares, ready to give whomever it is a piece of his mind, then halts when he sees the smiling face of Captain Zachariah Milton staring down at him. He pulls himself together just enough to ask, “Do you need something, sir?”

The Captain’s smile widens, and he hands Castiel a folder. “I need these processed by the end of the day, Detective Novak. It’s very important these are done right. We don’t want any mistakes, do we, Castiel?”

Castiel resists the urge to grab a sanitizing wipe and shakes his head, taking the folder. “No sir.” 

“Before you leave tonight, Detective,” Captain Milton calls as he walks towards his large, quiet, _private_ office.

Castiel glances at the clock and swears internally. It’s 4:30, and he’s going to be here for at least another two hours.

_Why did I join the force, again?_ He thinks, flipping open the folder.

And that’s when a grinning face split with a long scar he recognizes from the posters on the opposite wall leans in and holds out a hand. “Hello,” says Virgil Abramovich, low-level grunt of Lucifer Abramovich's organization, known for breaking kneecaps and screwing up operations for his father and uncles. “Castiel? Balthazar said I could pick you up here.”

_Fuck my life._


	3. Wednesday, November 21 (Dean)

Driving the familiar roads is almost comforting to Dean, and so is the restaurant and bar he sees glowing on the horizon. He’s spent a lot of time on the road, what with John’s travels and him and Sam living in motels for most of their childhoods, but if he had to pick one building that felt most like a home, it’d be Ellen Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

Bill Harvelle and John Winchester had been friends a long time, since their days in the Marines back in the 70s, and when they got back stateside and found wives and started families, little changed.

But then there’d been Mary’s murder and John’s obsession. Ellen had looked after Sam and Dean more times than Dean could remember, keeping them fed and warm and out of trouble while John drove through the countryside chasing ghosts. Jo had been like a little sister, almost like a second Sam, and Dean has fuzzy memories of blonde hair trailing behind Sam’s brown curls as they ran through the yard behind the bar. For a while, he’d thought they might stay forever every time John dropped them off. Part of him had been angry at John, angry that he’d leave his kids to go on some crazy mission that seven-year-old Dean hadn’t really understood. But a small part of him, a part he kept buried deep inside his heart, had wondered if it’d be so bad if John never came back. Would it be awful to stay forever in the little room above the kitchen, smelling bread and burgers and having Ellen’s cool hands on their foreheads when they were sick instead of John’s gruff commands?

But it hadn’t mattered.

Bill had tried to help, reaching out to old friends in law enforcement and collecting information through the network of truckers who came through the Roadhouse every day, but someone had taken offense to his questions one late night, and Ellen and Jo had come home from a trip to find Bill’s body crumpled in the cellar with a note to John pinned to his shirt.

 There’d been no more trips to the Roadhouse for Sam and Dean after that.

It’d only been a few years ago, after John’s death and after they’d settled in Sioux Falls, that Ellen had called Bobby to tell him to bring them up for a visit before she drove down there herself. Dean had stared at Bobby when he’d showed up to give them Ellen’s message, and Bobby had looked away, saying gruffly, “You ain’t your father, boy. She never had any beef with you.”

The memories all come flooding back as he sits in the nearly deserted parking lot the night before Thanksgiving, but he’s stirred from his thoughts when a slim figure barrels down the steps and yanks his door open.

“Dean Winchester. I can’t believe you weren’t gonna come.” Jo’s got her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face and a long pair of braids trailing down her back. Dean climbs out of the car and yanks one, dodging her punch. 

“Course I came. Wasn’t gonna pass up your mom’s pumpkin pie. Best in the world.” He pulls her into a hug. “Hey, Jo. How’s it going here?”

Jo sighs and relaxes against him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her nose in his shirt. “I’m gonna kill my mother if I don’t get out of here soon, Dean. You just watch me.” 

He snorts. “Yeah, you could try. I wouldn’t bet against Ellen Harvelle on anything.”

“What’re we betting on?” Ellen’s standing in the doorway, spatula in hand. “Get up here, Dean.” 

Dean untangles from Jo and sweeps Ellen into his arms, holding her tight for a second, breathing in tequila and yeast. She chuckles and pats him on the back, then pulls away and swats him on the head. “What, you think we were gonna let you sit alone moping about your brother while we eat turkey and pie? I don’t think so.” She takes him firmly by the elbow. “Come on. I’ve got some potatoes for you to peel for tomorrow.” 

He groans and lets her lead him into the kitchen.


	4. Wednesday, November 21 (Castiel)

It’s not that Castiel doesn’t _like_ his family.

That’s not it at all.

It’s more that the possibility of chaos and relationship-ending blowout fights increases exponentially with each member of the Milton/Novak family that enters a building at any given time. One would think, given the amount of Sioux Falls Police Department staff in the family, that they’d be more reasonable and law-abiding than the average family. 

Anyone who thought that would be wrong.

And an event like Thanksgiving? It’s a recipe for disaster.

Castiel always tries to arrive last to family events, even when they’re hosted nearby. He’s among the closest relatives geographically–only Hester lives closer to his uncle’s house–but he puts off arriving until the last possible moment. 

It’s Wednesday night, the night before Thanksgiving, and he’s had a truly terrible evening so far to match his awful day.

After the FBI had burst in, alerted to Abramovich’s presence by the surveillance cameras they’d installed in the precinct, he’d been detained for nearly two hours while they questioned why a member of the mob family his partner had been working with seemed to be on such good terms with him.

Somehow _My brother is an ass_ didn’t quite cut it with the FBI. 

Then he’d had to finish the paperwork for Zachariah, because Zachariah believes that employing family means showing some sort of negative preference towards them and therefore works Castiel ten times harder than anyone else in the precinct. He also has a habit of drifting by to watch Castiel at work, eyes fixed on the computer monitor and mouth curved up in a slight smile.

Sometimes, Castiel thinks he might understand why Uriel betrayed their uncle Zach. The man’s a bully and an idiot, and Castiel dreads every day of working with him.

But since he can’t take it out on Zachariah, he’s headed to deal with the other cause of his problems today. And that’s why, at just after 7, he’s finally leaving the precinct to confront Balthazar about Virgil Abramovich.

And of course, it’s pouring rain outside.

The coffee shop is just a fifteen minute walk from the precinct, and Castiel takes it at a jog in an effort to stay anything less than sopping wet, but by the time he reaches the door his shoes are squelching and his overcoat is completely soaked through. He pulls it off as he bursts through the door, draping it over a sodden arm, and stalks up to the counter.

Balthazar makes excuses, trying to convince him that he should try getting out more, but Castiel’s having none of it. 

He knows his family worries, especially his brother. He’s not exactly a social butterfly, but he likes his life and he’d prefer they not interfere with it. He storms back out, feeling a little better for having spoken his mind, and plods through the puddles to his lonely apartment.

And that’s when he discovers he’s missing his keys. And his coat, which is probably where the keys are as well.

So it’s back to the coffee shop. At least the rain’s slowed, so he isn’t being soaked through anymore, but he’s damp and uncomfortable and he can feel the beginnings of a cold in his chest and sinuses.

Balthazar’s wiping down tables inside, most of the lights out, and Castiel realizes it must be after closing. He knocks on the door and his brother looks up, smirking. 

Castiel gestures at the door and Balthazar tips his head in a mockery of Castiel’s usual gesture.

Castiel rattles the doorknob. “Balthazar, I do not have time for your games,” he calls through the door, and Balthazar rolls his eyes, sauntering slowly to the door. 

He opens it with a click, ushering Castiel inside. “You left in _such_ a hurry earlier, Cassie.” He picks up the coat from where it’s drying across a chair. “Aren’t you glad I picked this up for you?”

Castiel grabs the coat and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you.” He pulls the coat over his shoulders, sighing as the somewhat-dry fabric immediately starts to warm him up. “You know what happened with Uriel and that family. I was interrogated, Balthazar. _By the FBI._ ”

Balthazar snorts. “And you glared at them, and they bought the big innocent blue eyes act, I’m sure.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I had nothing to do with Uriel. You know I didn’t.”

His brother chuckles fondly. “I know, Castiel. You’re the _good_ one. The loyal soldier. The ‘credit to the family’.”

Castiel has always had a hard time reading his brother. They’re only eight years apart in age, but Balthazar spent his formative years in England, not South Dakota. He’d been raised during the decade that their mother had spent in London trying to break from tradition and their family, and it shows in his obstinance and refusal to toe the family line. 

They’d finally drawn Anna back into the fold just two years after Castiel’s birth, when Balthazar was ten, and the three of them had returned to Sioux Falls to join the family tradition of law enforcement. Anna resumed her law career as if nothing had happened, and Castiel was raised to obey his elders and follow the path set out for him, trying to ignore his curiosity about his unknown father and the Novak name that separates him from the Miltons. Balthazar, on the other hand, had tried to run away over and over. Even now in his thirties, he hasn’t stopped. This coffee shop is just the latest in a string of small rebellions against Zachariah, the de facto head of the family.

It’s not worth the fight for Castiel. He may consider it now and then, but who doesn’t?

He’s content with his life.

He pulls the overcoat closed and walks back out into the night.


	5. Thursday, November 22 (Dean)

Ellen makes a fucking amazing pumpkin pie.

And cherry pie.

And apple pie, actually.

In fact, Dean’s not sure he can remember ever having a dessert spread quite like this one, and he tells Ellen as much as he leans back from the table, groaning and unbuckling his belt.

Ellen laughs, pointing at the dishes. “Glad you enjoyed yourself, because you’re gonna be cleaning up all that.”

Bobby snorts, and she turns her eye on him. “Don’t you laugh like that, Bobby Singer. You’ll be helping him.”

Bobby opens his mouth, then closes it, bushy eyebrows drawing together.

Jo, perhaps wisely, says nothing.

Dean grumbles as he stands, but really, he doesn’t mind. He and Bobby stand side by side at the sink, washing and drying methodically. 

“You all right, boy?” asks Bobby, staring intently into a casserole dish. “First Thanksgiving without Sam and all.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, Bobby. I’m good.”

Bobby nods and they wash in silence for a few moments before Bobby lets out a long huff of air. He runs the towel across the plate in his hands one last time before setting it down in the cabinet and fixing Dean with a stern look. “Go call your brother, you idjit. I can finish up here.”

Dean shakes his head, trying to pick up another plate, but Bobby scowls at him and crosses his arms over his chest. “Go.”

Dean goes.

The room above the kitchen hasn’t changed much in twenty years, and every time Dean stays here it’s like a portal to a different time. Even the smell of yeast in the air is the same, and he takes a moment to breathe it in, remembering sitting on this bed with Sammy beside him, wondering how long they’d be staying and whether John would come back. There’s still a drawing tacked up on the wall, Sam’s depiction of their family with Dean beside him, painstakingly drawn, and John and Ellen on either side of them.

There’s also a final figure drawn in in a different pen, a woman with long hair and a big smile. Dean unpins it carefully and holds it up to the light. He remembers pulling the drawing from Sam’s hands and telling him, _you forgot mom_ , and Sam replying, _I don’t even remember her. I don’t know what to draw, Dean._ Dean had pulled him close and drawn Mary above them, in Heaven, and had told Sam everything he could remember about their mother.

Sam had listened, wide-eyed and hungry for any information, and Dean had stayed curled up beside him all night long, awake and thinking about John and Mary and a kid who never knew anything about his mother because his father never spoke her name.

There’s a knock on the door that startles Dean from his maudlin thoughts. He glances up and calls, “Yeah?”

The door opens and Jo steps in, grinning when she sees Dean holding the drawing. “Funny how Sam’s art never really improved,” she says, gesturing at the paper.

Dean laughs and sets it aside gently. “Hey, Jojo. You here to insult me too, or are we just picking on Sam because he’s not here?”

She grins and plops down on the bed beside him. “Just Sam, today. Going easy on you for now. It’s a holiday, after all.”

He nods seriously. “I appreciate it.”

She chuckles and they sit for a moment silently, before she turns to him. “I’m glad you came, Dean.”

“What, you didn’t want to watch Bobby pine over your mom by yourself?” asks Dean, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little.

She shudders. “Oh my god it’s _gross._ I don’t know why he doesn’t just go for it. They’ve known each other for what, twenty, thirty years now?”

“At least.”

She snorts. “It’s pretty sad.”

He smiles, glancing towards the door. “Yeah. But they both had someone, you know? Someone who’s gone now.”

Jo sobers. “Yeah.” She looks thoughtful. “Dean, I’m sorry Sam couldn’t come. I know you miss him.”

“Um, Jo, I hope you aren’t comparing me and Sam to Bobby and his wife, because, uh, I hate to disappoint you, but-”

She whacks him in the face with a pillow before he can continue, and he grabs it, wrestling it away.

“Oh, sister, it’s _on_.” 


	6. Wednesday, November 21 (Castiel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the lovely colonialdncr! Go tell her how awesome it is!!

It's completely dark and still drizzling by the time Castiel walks back into his apartment. This time he has the keys securely in hand and he stumbles through the door, kicking his shoes off in the direction of the closet and tossing his soaking coat on the couch. He continues through the apartment, casting off articles of clothing and dropping them in a damp trail until he's in his bedroom and down to nearly-dry boxers. He grabs an undershirt from the dresser and yanks it on, collapsing into bed, and falls asleep almost immediately.

He wakes up in a panic Thursday morning, staring incredulously at the clock and leaping out of bed before realizing it’s a holiday and there's no reason for him to be awake, let alone out of bed and dressed. He wanders to the kitchen, picking up scattered clothes along the way, and pulls eggs and ham from the fridge while a pan heats on the stove. He beats the eggs, pours them into the pan, and wanders over to the fish tank in the corner.

"Henry, are you enjoying your castle? The woman at the pet store said you would find it intellectually stimulating."

The betta floats across the tank, ignoring the new piece of landscape. 

Castiel shakes his head and pours a spoonful of flakes into the water. "Perhaps you'd prefer a treasure chest? They come with a bubbling device."

Henry doesn't indicate a preference, and instead turns his tail fins towards Cas. He swims slowly into the plants at the back of the tank, disappearing into the stalks.

Castiel watches for a few moments, but the fish doesn't reappear. He sighs and returns to the stove, stirring the eggs and adding ham and cheese before pouring them onto a plate. As he eats, he sorts the clothes into piles to add to his laundry baskets. His suit is crumpled and there's a stain across the lapel, and he shakes his head as he puts it aside to be dry cleaned. His overcoat is dry, but heavier than usual, and he pats the pockets, trying to figure out what's weighing it down.

There's something small and square wedged in one side pocket and he works it out carefully, frowning at the creased notebook in his hand. It's not his, and, glancing at the handwriting inside, not Balthazar's or any of his colleagues in the precinct.

He tries not to read it as he flips through for a name or any identifying information. It feels like an intrusion; the scrawled writing is obviously not meant to be shared. But he can't help it when a word or phrase catches his eye.

There's a sketch of a girl on a page early on. She can't be more than nineteen and the drawing is rough, a curve of a cheek, waves of light hair and a pair of intent eyes and a curved nose. There's the sketchiest hint of a sweet, wide grin and the words _she's trying to live her own life, but she's too much like her mom for either to let go._

He flips through, no longer pretending not to look. There’s drawings of at least thirty people, some with words below, some carefully outlined, and some only a scribble. His eyes widen when he sees his brother's face peering out near the end. It's even less defined than the girl's, nothing but his eyes and the creases of his cheeks and forehead, but Balthazar's smug expression is unmistakable. The artist has even managed to catch him mid-eyeroll, and Castiel can’t help but smile at the image.

A few pages later he nearly drops the book.

Nearly a full page is taken up by his own shoulders and the side of his face, brow furrowed in annoyance. The pencil strokes are quick and sketchy, but there’s no doubt it’s him. That's his frown, the curve of his chin, and there are his knuckles drawn in sharp relief wrapped around the corner of the counter of Balthazar's shop.

Then he reads the scribbled words below.

_He looks like he’s having a rough day. I wonder how he knows the coffee guy? Seems like they know each other pretty well. Maybe they’re brothers, since I’ve definitely pulled that trick on Sammy a few times. Never got him in trouble with the FBI, though, so maybe I need to up my game. I hope he finds something to make him happy, because it doesn’t look like he’s smiled much lately. But I bet he’s got a nice one._

Castiel stares at the writing for a long time. He hasn’t really smiled much lately, no, but then he hasn’t had much reason to. With the whole situation with Uriel he hasn’t had time or energy to do anything for himself except stare at Henry’s tank.

But even before Uriel, he hadn’t been particularly happy, he supposes. 

He shakes his head. His life is what it is. He has responsibilities to his family, to his community, and smiling more isn’t worth letting those go.

“Speaking of responsibilities...” he stands. “Henry, I don’t particularly want to go to this dinner.”

The fish doesn’t emerge from the reeds, but they sway a little in the current. Castiel sighs.

“But you’re right. I need to. They’re family, after all.” He hesitates and sets the notebook carefully on the end table, then stretches and walks to the shower to prepare for an afternoon and evening with his family.


	7. Friday, November 23 (Dean)

Dean comes down with his bag packed the next morning and Ellen tries to convince Dean to stay one more night, but he refuses. He’s ready to go back and he’s feeling better than he has in weeks. He’s pretty sure it’s not just because Sam called late Thanksgiving night to tell him about his night with Jess’s family and to say that he misses Dean and can’t wait for Christmas.

So he and Bobby take off, headed back to Sioux Falls to take care of getting the shop ready to open back up Monday. There are cars to be fixed, paperwork to be processed, and the temp they’ve been using has had the flu for a week so stuff’s getting pretty backed up.

They usually stop for lunch at a diner in Winner, NE, and Dean, as always, can’t stop laughing as they pass buildings called “Winner Police” and “Winner Diner.” Sam always rolled his eyes at Dean’s constant amusement when they drove through together, but Dean can’t help it. It’s fucking funny.

He texts Sam a quick “ _I’m at the First Church of Winner. You must be where the losers go since you’re not here”_ and grins when the immediate response is just “ _I hate you_.”

The diner is just as empty as it always is, and once again Dean wonders how a place can stay open for twenty years when as far as he can tell he and Sam and Bobby have been the only customers. But he’s not gonna complain; their burgers are fucking phenomenal.

They get in their customary booth, and Missouri stomps out with her pad and a couple of sticky menus.

“You again?” she asks, popping her gum. “Gonna try something different today, or stick with the burgers? And where’s your giant?”

“He found a girl,” Dean says, smiling up at the gruff waitress, trying to turn the charm up to eleven.

She gives him a nonplussed look. “So? That means he doesn’t spend Thanksgiving with his family?”

“Guess so,” replies Dean. “I’ll just have the burger again. Bobby?”

Bobby grimaces. “I’ll uh, I’ll get a salad. Caesar. With the chicken.”

Missouri stops in her tracks, turning to stare.

Dean’s mouth drops open.

“What, a guy can’t order a damn salad around here? Shut it, Dean.” Bobby’s definitely looking uncomfortable. and Dean leans in with a grin.

“So Bobby, what’s with the heart smart? You trying to get fit or something?”

Bobby leans back in his chair and narrows his eyes. “None of your damn business, boy. Or yours,” he continues, turning his stern glare on Missouri.

She snorts. “I’m just watching the show here. You can order what you like.” She turns on her heel and goes back into the kitchen with their orders.

Dean just keeps grinning at Bobby, not saying anything, and finally Bobby sighs. “It’s Ellen, all right? She said I should eat healthier. Said I looked like I was losing my edge.”

Dean starts laughing, and can’t stop even when Bobby slaps him upside the head and tells him to stop being a damn fool.


	8. Thursday, November 22 (Castiel)

Thanksgiving goes– well, it goes about as well as Castiel expected from the Milton family.

Anna, Rachel, and Hester are all in the kitchen when Cas arrives. Great-aunt Naomi is away this Thanksgiving, and her brother Zachariah is sitting in the living room with a glass of scotch with a terrified-looking Inias while Samandriel, the youngest of the cousins, is setting the table quietly in the dining room. Both of his cousins look up and smile at him as he enters, Samandriel widely and Inias shyly. It amazes Castiel how the brothers can be so similar, yet so different. Both are sweet and studious, but Inias loves music and art and will tell anyone who asks all about Beethoven and Bach and Miro. His brother Samandriel spends his time doing math and reading the latest science journals, and stays quiet at family events. Castiel’s reminded of himself as a child when he looks at his youngest cousin, and has made it his mission to seek him out at gatherings and draw him out of his shell.

Trying to avoid catching Zachariah's eye, Castiel pads carefully towards the door to the dining room. He's almost made it, his foot on the threshold, when his great uncle and boss's voice rings out.

"Castiel! Come have a drink with your cousin and me in here."

Castiel hesitates for a moment, wondering if there's some way he can pretend that he didn't hear, or that he's in fact someone else, and for a moment even considers making a break for the door, but his feet are following the command without his brain's permission.

Zachariah is sitting in the leather armchair in the living room, eyes fixed on Castiel. “How are you, Castiel? Are you recovering well from the unpleasantness at the precinct? So glad we got all that straightened out.”

His eyes are boring into Castiel’s head and Castiel can’t help but give a little shudder. “I’m doing as well as can be expected, thank you.” He turns to Inias. “And how are you, cousin? You’re in your final year now, correct?”

Inias nods, sitting up and leaning towards Castiel with a smile. “I am. I’m studying ancient music this semester, and taking a general Art History course as well.”

Zachariah’s smile widens to become even more shark-like. “And are you still planning to apply to law school?”

Inias looks down, mouth tight. “I am.”

“Good.”

Castiel can’t take the tension any longer. “Inias, I’m going to see if our mothers need any assistance with cooking. Would you like to join me?”

The younger man nods quickly and stands, glancing at Zachariah, who waves a hand in permission. He's still watching Castiel, and as they're about to turn the corner, he calls, "Castiel."

Castiel freezes, letting Inias escape into the kitchen, and backtracks until he's standing before Zachariah's chair. "Yes, Uncle?"

"You will let me know any more information that arises regarding Uriel and the Abramovich family, won't you?"

"The FBI-"

"I'll notify the FBI. It's better to have just one point of contact, don't you think?"

Something's not right about this conversation, but Castiel nods. "Yes, sir." _We'll see,_ he thinks. _I won't lie to the FBI if they call me in for more questions._

Zachariah grins. "Attaboy. You're going to be rising through the ranks in no time." He leans closer. "Maybe even _Lieutenant_ , if you work hard enough over the next few years."

Castiel swallows and nods.

"Now go see what the women are up to in the kitchen," says Zachariah, picking up his bourbon and swirling it. "It's starting to smell a little alarming."

Castiel feels his great-uncle’s eyes on his back as he turns the corner into the kitchen, ushering Inias before him.

Anna sees them enter and smiles, setting down the potato she’s peeling and wiping her hands on a towel. She’s tall and stately as ever, her red hair touched with grey at the temples and a spark of whatever it was that must have led her to England and rebellion and a mysterious man named Jimmy Novak still glinting somewhere in her eyes.

“Castiel, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. “Would you like to help us with the turkey?”

Castiel can’t help but feel a burst of warmth at the sound of his mother’s voice. Whatever his feelings towards the rest of his family, he and his mother have always been more alike than different. He nods, and picks up a baster, handing a bowl of melted butter to his cousin as his mother and Hester pull out the bird from the oven. It’s already golden brown and crispy on top, and he bastes it generously from Inias’s bowl. The smell is mouthwatering, and Anna assures them, laughing, that it’ll only be another few minutes.

Rachel reports that the sweet potatoes and green beans are just about ready, and Hester stirs the gravy one more time, and for a moment Castiel forgets how angry the Milton/Novak family makes him most of the year and basks in the warmth of their companionship.

It’s a few minutes until Anna announces dinner, and just as they’re trooping into the dining room the front door swings open and Balthazar’s there, kissing Anna on the cheek and ruffling Samandriel, Inias and Castiel’s hair. Castiel can’t help but smile as he watches Rachel and Hester try to contain their annoyance when Balthazar grabs a green bean from one bowl and eats it noisily.

“ _Lovely_ , Rachel. Salty, crunchy, and oh, is that a piece of plastic?”

Anna frowns. “Balthazar! Be nice!”

Balthazar rolls his eyes. “But I’m sure the potatoes are _lovely_.” He leans towards the oven. “And Mother, the turkey smells divine.”

She shakes her head. “Then you can help your brother pull it out of the oven. It’s too heavy for one person to get out of there alone.”

\-----

The first few courses go so smoothly that in retrospect Castiel should have known it would all crash and burn.

They’ve just barely made it to carving the turkey when Zachariah turns to Balthazar and says, “And you. When will you use that law degree we paid for?”

Castiel’s heart sinks into his stomach and he opens his mouth to try and divert the conversation, but it’s too late. 

“I _am_ using it, Uncle.” Balthazar smirks. “It makes a lovely coaster to keep my coffee table pristine.”

Samandriel lets out the tiniest squeak of laughter then goes pale as Zachariah’s eyes flick to him. “Something funny, Samandriel?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “No, sir.”

“Good.” Zachariah returns his attention to Balthazar. “And speaking of coffee, how _is_ your little project doing? Or have you moved on to your next experiment yet?”

“It’s doing well, if you’re actually interested,” Balthazar’s voice is low and tense. “You’d know if you came to visit it.” He smirks. “Gabriel came by the other day, you know. I told him to stop by tonight.”

Zachariah’s mouth twitches. “Gabriel is not welcome here. You know that, as does he." He takes a long drink of wine and continues in a conversational tone, "You know, you should take care to avoid becoming like Gabriel, Balthazar. Your careless disregard for our values and the life we have provided will not end well for you.”

“Won’t it?” Balthazar’s tone is smooth and careless, but Castiel knows his brother well enough to see the hurt in his eyes. “I think I’ve been doing rather well so far.”

Zachariah snorts. “You’ve done nothing of value, Balthazar. Nothing with any worth. Nothing to be remembered. You’ll be forgotten if you don’t take your place in the family.” He smirks. “Gabriel, at least, held some interest. You, on the other hand? Nothing but a lost soul who’ll fade away.”

Balthazar grits his teeth. “I’d rather be free to do what I want like Gabriel than trapped in a life like yours.”

Anna, Rachel and Hester all gasp. Zachariah composes himself, a smarmy smirk spreading across his features. “Well, you let me know if you want to grow up, man up, and face your responsibilities as a member of this family instead of fooling around with your worthless little experiments.”

Balthazar’s face is stormy, and gets darker with every one of Zachariah’s words. “You know what, uncle? I can’t do this any longer. I won’t sit here and listen to you tell me what you think I should do with my life.” He pushes back from the table with a clatter of wood and stalks out the front door.

Castiel looks from his cousins, who are looking anywhere but towards Balthazar’s seat, to his mother, who’s clenching her hands in her lap.

There’s silence for a moment, then Zachariah turns to Samandriel. “And how are your studies?”

Samandriel blushes, vigorously chewing the mouthful of turkey he’d just put in his mouth, and swallows. 

Castiel watches the conversation slowly grind back to what passes for normal with growing horror as he realizes no one is going to say anything about Balthazar or his departure, and he suddenly can’t take polite conversation for a moment longer.

“Excuse me,” he whispers to Hester at his left, then to his mother on his right, and stands. He avoids the eyes of his family as he walks out to the living room, though he can feel them burning into his back. But the conversation continues, stunted and formal, and he swings open the door into the night.

The shadowy figure on the porch is leaning back across the steps, face upturned. beer bottle dangling from one hand. Castiel closes the door quietly and steps forward, settling on the step beside him.

“Hey, Cassie,” says Balthazar quietly, subdued from his earlier fire. “Come to see the black sheep that’s been driven from the herd?”

“So you’re really going to leave?”

Balthazar nods.

“What will you do, Balthazar?”

His brother sighs and leans back, looking up at the bright stars. “I’m not sure.” His eyes are vulnerable, open, and there’s a look of honest feeling on his face that Castiel isn’t sure he’s ever seen before. “I want to get out of this family. I want a different life. One without fate, destiny, rules, just me, and what I want to do.” He turns to Castiel, meeting his eyes. “Is that too much to ask?”

Castiel hesitates. “But– can’t you do that here?”

Balthazar gives a sad smile. “No, Cassie, I can’t. Not with them–” he gestures to the brightly-lit house, “–judging my every move. This is what I have to do.” He takes a swig from the bottle and turns back to the sky.

Castiel doesn’t respond, and they sit for a few moments in the starlight, side by side.

Looking at his brother, Castiel thinks maybe, just maybe, he understands.


	9. Sunday, November 25 (Dean)

It’s not until Sunday that Dean realizes he’s missing something.

Saturday is spent cleaning and doing laundry, his usual routine, although laundry day goes a lot faster without Sam’s gigantor clothes in the mix. There’s something calming about laundry, watching the clothes spin and the grease and dirt of his everyday life get rinsed and beaten away.

As he's sitting there in the laundry room, surreptitiously glancing at the other patrons, he reaches into his pocket for his notebook and comes up empty.

 _Must've left it at home_ , he thinks with a mental shrug, and lies back on the bench instead, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. _I could use a nap anyway_.

He checks the pockets of his other jeans when he gets back to the apartment, but it's not there either. It's not on his nightstand, or his kitchen table, either.

He's about to start looking in earnest when he spots a _Busty Asian Beauties_ half-tucked under an Ikea catalogue. 

 _I'll look later,_ he thinks as he zeroes in on the magazine.

\-----

It's not anywhere in the apartment.

It’s not under the couch, or buried in the mail pile, or in the black hole between the headboard and the wall. He didn’t set it on the bookcase or the nightstand or leave it in the kitchen, either.

On the bright side, though, his apartment’s now cleaner than it’s been in months.

Next he checks the Impala. 

It’s not under the seats or in the trunk, though he does find a bag of gummi bears that’ve melted into a mass of solid jelly and a pair of gigantic boxers he’s pretty sure aren’t his or Sam’s.

He also finds the copy of the Hobbit he’d thought he’d left in a bar a few years back, and tells himself, _I’ll just read for five minutes_.

Four hours later, it’s too dark to read and he realizes he’s got ten minutes before the building laundry room closes. He’s not gonna find it today, seems like.

\-----

It’s not at work, either. He checks his workstation, the breakroom, the lockers, and even asks Bobby if he’s seen it. No luck.

 _Where the hell did I leave it?_ He wonders.

It's not that it's a big deal. It's just a notebook. Just something that he uses to waste time.

But he can't stop thinking about it. What if he left it somewhere else? What if someone's looking at it _right now?_

And that’s when he remembers the coffee shop he’d stopped at Wednesday night. _Fuck._

\-----

On his way home from the shop that night, he drives by the coffee shop and parks on the street. The shop is dark and quiet, and his heart sinks. He cups his hands around his eyes and stares through the glass.

It's just about how he left it, overstuffed chairs and vinyl booths along the sides and pastry cases lining the counter. The shelves are empty, though, and the sign with the hours has been taken down, and the register drawer is open and suspiciously bare.

The more Dean thinks about it, the more sure he is that he left his notebook here. And the longer he looks in the window, the less likely he thinks it is that there's anyone to ask about it. Looks like the shop is closed for a while, at least, if not for good.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, _and their coffee was good too._  


	10. Monday, November 26 (Castiel)

Monday morning finds Castiel standing on the corner, just outside the station parking lot and trying to work up the energy to start walking towards the door. 

He hasn’t seen Zachariah since he followed Balthazar out Thursday night. He’d gone home, not even sticking his head in to say goodbye to the family, and he’s not looking forward to the conversation that’s inevitable this morning. Not for the first time, he wonders what working in a department _not_ filled with relatives would be like. He thinks it might be nice.

He watches Hester pull into the courthouse parking lot across the street; Samandriel gets out as well and Castiel sighs. Every time the boys come home, Samandriel gets roped into doing work for Hester, a prosecutor for the county, or great-aunt Naomi, who's the most senior judge in the state. Neither seems interested in the fact that he hates the work and would rather volunteer for the Medical Museum where his friends from high school spend their summers and vacations.

Castiel watches her usher him inside and sighs. _Time to face Zachariah._

He starts towards the station, then hesitates a moment longer, then pulls the strange little notebook he'd found out of his bag and slips it into his pocket beside the reading glasses he's recently become resigned to having to wear. For some reason he doesn't want to show it to anyone at the precinct; it seems too private for that. _If anyone asks about it, I'll give it back_ , he thinks, feeling oddly protective of the notebook and its author.

He tightens his grip on his briefcase and walks up the steps, scanning his ID badge and opening the door.

Not many people are in today, he realizes as he looks around the room. Many took an extra day with their families and loved ones. _They must not have families like mine_ , he thinks, and smiles. _If I were a criminal, today would be the day to commit a crime._

"Something funny, Detective?" Zachariah's oily voice slides across the room. "or are you just as _thrilled_ to be back at work as I am?"

The more jovial Zachariah sounds, the angrier he is, Castiel has learned. He meets his great uncle's eyes squarely. "No sir. Just ready to work."

Zachariah nods and claps him on the shoulder. "Attaboy. Let's catch some criminals today, how does that sound?"

Castiel nods weakly and escapes the heavy hand to hide in his makeshift cubicle.

As his colleagues trickle in, he notices them avoiding his eyes. Between the incident with Uriel, the cool air that even Castiel can sense between himself and Zachariah, and Wednesday's blind date/practical joke embarrassment, none of them want to be the first one to speak to him.

Castiel suddenly, desperately misses Uriel. He might have betrayed the department, the city, and their family, but at least he smiled at Castiel and joked with him sometimes.

He shook his head and focused down at his paperwork. _I'm not here to make friends,_ he thinks. _I'm here to hunt criminals and keep people safe. So that's what I'm going to do_. He squares his shoulders and picks up a pen.

He rolls his shoulders back a few hours later, eying the computer distastefully and thinking longingly of his own in his and Uriel's shared office, now cordoned off with an FBI seal across the door. He’s just about to steel himself to turn on the ancient monster of a computer when Zachariah’s behind him suddenly and Castiel has to force himself not to jump at the hand that lands on his shoulder.

“Castiel! Just the man I was looking for. I have a case I’d like to give you.” He looms over Castiel, not sitting or leaning. “This could be the big one for you, Castiel. Your big break.” His smile was sharp. “Here are the details. I want you on the scene in an hour.” With another pat to Castiel’s shoulder, he stepped back and turned, striding out of the office. “Big things in your future if you solve this one, Detective Novak. _Big things._ ”


	11. Monday, November 26 (Dean)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Elizabeth/colonialdncr! THANK YOU!!

Dean knows there’s something up when he opens the hood of his first car of the day and a baggie of white powder tumbles to the ground, followed by a crumpled $100 bill. He’s had run-ins with enough cops to know not to pick it up, and instead yells for Bobby.

Bobby hurries over, face full of annoyance, but his mouth snaps shut when he sees the plastic bag and cash on the ground. He stares at it a moment, then glances at Dean, the car, the sky, and shakes his head, muttering, “ _Balls._ ”

The cops arrive about half an hour after Bobby calls; two squad cars pulls up, lights blazing, and screech to a halt in their parking lot. Dean dusts off his hands and stretches, walking out to meet them.

The first car opens and a tall woman steps out, glancing around the yard with a barely-muted sigh of disgust. She ignores Dean, turning instead to Bobby who’s elbows-deep in a transmission. “Robert Singer?”

Bobby swears as he bangs his head on the hood, then turns to glare at the detective. “Yeah, that’s me. Something you folks need?”

The detective flips open a badge. “Detective Raphael Angelos, Mr. Singer. We’re here about the suspicious powder your employee found.”

Bobby grunts and gestures to Dean. “Talk to him, then. He knows where it was. I got work to do.” He ambles off and Dean smirks.

There’s a man getting out of the second car, turning back to speak to the woman in the back seat, who’s got some sort of kit filled with tubes and swabs open in her lap. He turns and his eyes meet Dean’s just as Detective Angelos clears her throat. “Mr. Winchester.”

Dean jerks his eyes from the other man’s level blue gaze and leans on the car behind him. “Yeah, it’s over here.” He points at the bag that they’ve left undisturbed on the ground since it appeared. “It fell out of the hood of that PT Cruiser when I popped it open. Must’ve been tucked in the catch there.” He points at the hood release, where there’s a torn piece of tape and some white residue.

The other woman comes over and introduces herself as Hester Milton and starts swabbing the bag, the floor, the car, Dean’s hands, and just about every damn thing in the shop. Dean endures it at first, but his frustration is rising and he’s not sure how much more prodding he can take.

The third time he’s asked to point out _exactly_ how the bag fell, he snaps. “We’ve been over this! _It fell out of the hood._ I don’t know what else to tell you.” 

There’s a brief pause as the two women exchange glances.

The detective steps forward, between Dean and the car in question. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Winchester. We’ll take it from here.” She gestures to the woman in the other car, who comes forward. “My colleague will question you further if you’ll just follow him.” She points to the man, who’s staring intently at the bag and the car and completely ignoring the people around him. “Castiel,” calls Detective Angelos. “We need your attention on this.”

The man turns and again Dean’s caught in that gaze until he pulls himself away. The man watches, unblinking, and gestures for him to follow.

Dean sighs and does so, trailing behind the detective through the maze of cars in Bobby’s yard until they reach the main office. Dean follows and sits in the customer chair as the man settles in Bobby’s desk chair.

There’s a silent moment as they consider each other, then the man reaches out a hand stiffly. He’s familiar somehow, and Dean’s frustrated when he can’t quite place the face. 

“Detective Castiel Milton. I’ve been assigned as lead on your case.”

Dean snorts. “You sure? Seemed like your friend out there had a different idea of who’s in charge.”

Castiel gave a small smile. “Don’t worry about that. Tell me, how did the car arrive in the shop?”

Dean stares at him a moment, then replies, “The owner dropped it off? Not many ways for a car to get to us out here.”

“Was it dropped off this morning?”

Dean glances around the office until his eyes fall on the paperwork for the day’s work. “It should be all in the forms here.” He shuffles through them, finding the intake form. “No. It came in, uh–” he can’t help a hint of a grin crossing his face.

“Something funny, Mr. Winchester?”

“No, uh–” he tries to control the glee on his face, knowing it’s not going to win him any points with the police to be too pleased during an investigation. “No, it’s just– uh. Wednesday evening. That’s when she dropped it off. And you can call me Dean. Mr. Winchester’s my Dad. Was my dad.”

Castiel is watching him closely, eyes narrowed, and Dean shuts his mouth with a snap.

 _Focus on the questions,_ he tells himself firmly. _What the hell is wrong with you._

The detective leans closer. “What can you tell me about the car?”


	12. Monday, November 26 (Castiel)

The case is a relatively simple one, or at least it seems that way so far. Castiel takes the opportunity it provides to bury himself in research and paperwork and shut out the buzzing station around him.

The witnesses at the auto shop had all said basically the same thing: the woman had come in Wednesday night, dropped off her car, and asked to have it back ASAP. She’d gotten agitated when they’d refused to have it ready the morning after Thanksgiving.

Something in the story is familiar to him, but he can’t quite place it, so he sets the thought aside for the moment and returns to Hester’s report.

There’s something he’s not seeing. Something he’s missing.

He pushes his glasses up his nose and flips back to the report of the car and Dean’s testimony about the woman. Not for the first time, he wishes they’d been able to get a warrant right away for the security footage from the auto shop. Dean’s description had been good, but there’s no substitute for good video. Silently, he curses Zachariah’s stubbornness. _There are other judges besides Aunt Naomi,_ he thinks bitterly. _If he didn’t insist on only using her, we could have had this case solved yesterday._ He doesn’t blame Bobby Singer for being a– what had he called it?– a _paranoid bastard_. If it weren’t his family and his department, he would be suspicious as well of a force that’d been rocked by such a serious scandal.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. _I’m going to have to call Dean Winchester and set up a time to ask him more questions,_ he thinks, and sighs. _I don’t believe he will be pleased about that._

The man had been handsome, that much was certain, and he’d caught Castiel’s eye immediately. It was rare that someone sparked his interest, so when he’d had to question the man at the crime scene he’d been intrigued, heart beating a little faster than usual and attention focused on the young mechanic who’d found the evidence. At first Dean had been surly, but when Castiel had asked about his family and his work he’d brightened and Cas had been drawn in by his grin and by the sparkle in the green eyes.

Dean hadn’t seemed nearly as interested in him, however, and Castiel’s had enough failed romantic attempts to know that inquiring further would likely be useless.

Flipping through the witnesses’ paperwork again, he frowns. The feeling of deja vu he’s experienced all day is starting to trouble him. He idly picks up a picture off the wall of photos in the auto shop’s main office, eyes roaming it as he tries to capture whatever it is that’s floating on the edge of his mind.

Suddenly he freezes, his eye catching a detail he hadn’t seen before.

It’s not something from the case. That must be why he’d missed it before. No, it’s a face familiar from somewhere else.

He stares at the young blonde woman whose photograph is tacked just above the cash register. She’s grinning, holding a shotgun and with Bobby Singer’s arm around her. He stares at her picture, trying to place her, eyes narrow and photo inches from his nose. She’s half-turned away from the camera, but that nose and those dimples–

“Detective Novak!” Zachariah’s voice booms from inches behind Castiel and he stiffens, dropping the photograph to his desk. “Making progress, I see.” The Captain’s tone is cordial, with an iron lining beneath. 

Castiel turns, pulling off his reading glasses and folding them carefully on his desk before meeting his uncle’s eyes where the other man sits in his cubicle’s second chair. “Yes, sir. I have a few things I’d like to look into this afternoon at the auto shop.”

Zachariah gives him a long, level look, before nodding curtly. “I like to hear that you’re working hard. You’ve always been a go-getter, keeping yourself in line. You’re a credit to the family, Castiel, and to the department. I see big things in your future. Big things, if you keep up the good work.” He gives a smile that doesn’t seem to have an ounce of pleasure behind it. “Someday you might even be in my office, if you play your cards right.” He stands and walks out, leaving Castiel staring after him.

Castiel slowly turns back to his desk, shaking his head. _That’s the most praise he’s ever given me,_ he thinks, _in ten years of being my boss and nearly thirty of being my uncle._ He glances over his shoulder with a shudder, suddenly glad Zachariah’s nowhere to be seen. _So why did that feel more like a warning than encouragement?_


	13. Tuesday, November 27 (Dean)

“They want _what?_ ”

Bobby sighs, tipping his hat a little further down his brow. “Dean, they just want to ask you a few follow up questions, he said. They ain’t gonna arrest you. They know you coulda kept the money _and_ the drugs and it would have a lot less hassle. So just go meet the nice detective and get it over with so you can get back to work.”

Dean snorts. “Maybe I should have kept it,” he mutters, then puts up his hands when Bobby fixes him with a dark look. “Fine. _Fine_. I’ll go wait for them outside. But next time, _you_ get to be the one to open the sketchy lady’s car.”

Bobby’s face is smug. “Yeah, but I don’t think that detective would stare at me like he did at you, Dean.”

To his horror, Dean feels himself blushing. He turns on his heel, giving Bobby the finger over his shoulder, and slams the door to the parking lot a little harder than necessary.

_That Detective Novak would be cute if he weren’t a cop,_ he thinks as he passes the time waiting by checking the Impala’s oil. _Okay, he’s sort of hot anyway. But still kind of an ass._

He’s just wiping the dipstick when a shadow falls across the open hood.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean jumps a little, knocking his head on the hood and swearing. “ _Fuck_!” He clears his throat. “Uh, I mean. Hey, Detective Novak.”

“What are you doing?” Castiel is peering into the car’s machinery with a quizzical look. 

Dean blinks at him and holds up the dipstick. “I’m checking the oil?”

Cas squints at him.

Dean stares back. “Have you never...”

Cas rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ve, uh, never had much occasion to work on a car. The station’s mechanics service my squad car, and I’ve never had one of my own. But I’d like to learn how to do basic maintenance, some day.” He looks wistfully down at the engine, then clears his throat. "But I'm actually here to discuss one specific car, the one in which you found the bag."

Dean sets down the dipstick and crosses his arms, face shuttering closed. "Yeah, okay."

“Was there anything else unusual about the woman, or the car?” Cas is tense, something uncomfortable in his eyes. “Had you seen her before?”

“I dunno, man. She was new. And she was pretty tense, but, uh, it was the day before Thanksgiving and the car was in pretty bad shape. The clutch on those things just snaps sometimes, and– well. Anyway, it wasn’t going anywhere.” He glances towards the office. Bobby’s out working on the 1931 Willys Six that’s his pet project, and probably won’t be back for a few hours at least, and for some reason Dean trusts Cas more than he would any of the douchebags who’d showed up with him the day before. He’s been honest with Dean, at least, and hasn’t looked at him with suspicion the way the other assholes had. “Look, I can show you her picture. I can’t give you the footage, but seems like you might have an idea of who she is, right?”

Cas smiles tiredly, and Dean wonders when the detective last got got a full night’s sleep. The circles under his eyes are deeper and puffier than they’d been the day before, and his voice scratchier and lower. “Thank you, Dean. I have– suspicions. Doubts, even.” He follows Dean back through the maze of hallways and cars. 

The back office is empty, just as Dean suspected, and he flips through the saved tapes until he finds the one from the Wednesday in question that shows the counter. He hesitates a moment, then shakes his head and slides it into the tapedeck of the VCR and hits play.

It starts at 8 am with an empty waiting area, and he fast forwards through a day of Bobby and him and the other workers wandering in and out. There’re customers and friends who pass through, and he’s getting ready to crank it up a notch to get through the day faster when Cas suddenly sits up straight. “Wait!”

Dean hits pause. It’s Ellen and Jo stopping by around noon with a bag of burgers, and he’s instantly on guard. “What?”

“That girl–” he’s pointing at Jo, who’s half-turned away from the camera. “Who is she?”

“That’s Jo.” Dean’s voice is dangerously low. “She’s a friend. She’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Does she come by often?” he asks, gaze shifting to Ellen. “And is that her mother?”

Dean nods reluctantly. “Yeah. They bring by food once in a while. Ellen owns Harvelle’s Roadhouse down 70. I guess she stopped in to see Bobby and make sure he was coming up for Thanksgiving. But they were long gone by the time the other chick came in.”

Cas nods, settling back with a satisfied look, and Dean gives him a wary glance and hits play again. They make it to the last customer, and Dean huffs in remembered annoyance when he sees her. She’s tall and angry, curly hair swaying in the draft from the door, and Castiel gasps in shock as she turns and they see her face.

Dean pauses again and turns to the other man. “What’s wrong?”

The detective is staring at the screen, eyes wide and hurt, and for a moment Dean sees something vulnerable in them. But then they blink once, twice, and whatever it was is gone and replaced by blankness. “Nothing. I–” Cas stands. “Thank you, Dean. For showing me this.” He turns, eyes lingering on the image for a moment, then stalks towards the door.

Dean quickly shuts down the VCR, putting the tape back where it belongs, and trails after him, vacillating between confused, annoyed, and worried. 

The parking lot is empty except Cas’s car, which Dean’s grateful for. He wouldn’t want to explain to Bobby why he and a police officer are hanging out in his office.

He hesitates a moment as Cas turns towards his squad car, then swallows. _Man up, Winchester._

“Hey, uh, Detective?”

The detective turns and looks at him, eyes questioning.

Dean steps closer, lowering his voice. “If you still want to learn about cars, I’d be happy to teach you the basics.”

Castiel smiles a little at that, eyes clearing a little of their blankness and crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, Dean. I believe I would enjoy that.” Now it’s his turn to hesitate a moment. “After the case is over, perhaps we could have dinner as well. And you can call me Castiel.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, then nods. “Uh. Yeah, sure. That would be– yeah.”

“Good.” Cas starts to turn, then looks back at Dean, voice back to its professional edge. “I need to ask you to stay in town for now, as well. Until the case is concluded. The department might have more questions for you.”

Dean nods, still a little off-balance. “Are you–” he clears his throat. “Did you know that woman? Is everything all right?”

Cas looks for a moment like he might answer, but then shakes his head. “You know I can’t answer questions about an ongoing investigation, Dean. Thank you for your help.” He hesitates again, hand on the door handle. “Please don’t tell anyone you showed me the tape. Can you do that for me?”

Dean’s not sure why he agrees, but he does, and Cas smiles at him again, wider this time, before driving off.


	14. Friday, November 30 (Castiel)

For the next few days, Castiel’s trying not to think about the look on Dean’s face when he’d said yes to dinner. He’s got a lot to do at the station, and even more to do outside it if his suspicions are correct.

He can’t quite focus enough to get anything done, though, not stuck out here in the main area of the station on this ancient computer, and especially not with the threat of Hester, or his mother or– God forbid– Zachariah coming up behind him. He glances at the clock and sees that it’s just past quarter to five and that settles it.

The main case file he slips into his briefcase, nestled beside the more private file he’d been keeping. As he stands, he grabs the photo he’d been studying earlier as well, the one that had sparked some sort of recognition he still can’t place, and slides it in as well. He peeks around the edge of the cube and lets out a sigh of relief to see that Zachariah’s door is firmly shut and the receptionist is away from her desk, and walks quickly to the elevator. The door is just an inch from closing when Zachariah’s door starts to swing open and Castiel steps back out of sight with a pounding heart. 

He makes it to his apartment without running into a single member of his family, but still lets out a sigh of relief as the door swings shut behind him. Setting the file down on the desk, he glances at Henry’s tank.

The betta, unsurprisingly, is nowhere in sight. Castiel stares a few more moments, trying to find him in the swaying reeds or the castle, but no luck. 

“Henry, you are a very frustrating fish. Are you aware of that?”

The fish doesn’t respond, and Castiel shakes his head fondly. He tips some flakes into the tank before sitting down at his desk and pulling out the two files. 

Something’s just not lining up, and he rubs a hand over his temples to try to stave off the headache he feels starting up behind his eyebrows.

He knows what he has to do and he knows he’s putting it off. 

“Henry,” he murmurs to the empty-looking tank, “I believe I must visit Uriel and speak to him.” The fish’s tail is barely visible between the reeds and it cheers Castiel just a bit. “We haven’t spoken since his arrest, but he might tell me more. We were close, once.”

The tail sways in the current a little, then disappears, to be replaced by a flat head. “He was the funniest child in our classes. Everyone said so.” He shakes his head, standing. “I don’t know what went wrong. When or why he lost faith in our purpose.”

The fish doesn’t respond, except to disappear back into the foliage.

“I suppose I should get some rest as well.” He packs away the file back into his briefcase and prepares for bed, falling asleep nearly instantly despite his fears that he’ll be spending the night lying awake and puzzling over the case.

He starts awake a few hours later, however, gripped with an idea that he can’t shake. He grabs the little notebook, flipping to the recent pages, and stares at the woman the author had defaced with cartoon horns and forked tail.

It’s his uncle’s acquaintance and occasional business partner Camael (and Castiel is relatively certain she’s occasionally _another_ kind of partner to Zachariah, something he’d prefer not to consider too deeply), no doubt about it. She’s the one he’d seen on the video Dean had shown him, and here she is again in the notebook. 

 _Now why in the world would she appear there? And who is the author?_ There’s something he’s not connecting, and it’s driving him crazy.

It’s just before five a.m., too early to go into the precinct, but the more he stares at the case file the more he’s sure he doesn’t want to go in today at all.

He flips through the little notebook for a while, feeling strangely calmed by the glimpses into other people’s lives, and can’t help but wonder if they’re content with their families and jobs and whatever else they do.

But his life is what it is, and he knows that. Instead of wallowing any deeper in his early-morning funk, he pulls out the _other_ file he took home from the office.

This one’s smaller, just filled with photocopies of a few documents, but it’s everything he managed to gather on Uriel’s betrayal and arrest. There’s no doubt his former partner was involved with the mafia, but Cas is starting to wonder if that was all that was going on.

And he’s in luck. The file names exactly where they took him. Until his trial, Uriel’s being held at the South Dakota State Penitentiary, the only jail in the state that doesn’t have a single member of the extended Milton family as an employee. He supposes they thought that would keep Uriel from getting special treatment and keep his family from accessing him before the trial, but fortunately, Castiel has his own contacts outside the family and the department.

He checks the time: nearly six. She should be awake, getting ready for her shift. He pulls out his phone and dials, holding the phone up to his ear.

It rings once, twice, then a voice drawls, “Hey there, Clarence.”

He smiles into the phone, comforted suddenly and by the familiar voice despite its dark undercurrent. “Hello, Meg.”

Meg knows Uriel, of course. Everyone’s heard the story of the detective gone bad. Better yet, he’s been assigned to her ward, and he knows she can get him in to see his cousin... for a price.

He smiles at the thought, because he and Meg have a relationship no one else has ever really be able to understand.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” he tells her, and he can feel satisfaction flow palpably through the phone.

“Oh, really?” she drawls.

She tells him it’s going to cost him a dismissed speeding ticket, and for a moment he wonders whether he and Uriel are really all that different.

 _A ticket is very different than a murder_ , he thinks, firmly, trying to push down his discomfort. _And perhaps in this case, the ends justify the means. Or I hope so, anyway._

He pushes his discomfort down, and instead focuses on getting ready for work.

He has to stop by the station before he can go to the prison, and at least put in an appearance. He tries to make his entrance inconspicuous, but just as he’s crossing the threshold to his temporary cubicle the Captain’s voice booms across the hall.

“Castiel!”

Castiel winces. There’re a few different ways his uncle calls for him. When it’s just ‘Detective’, and Zachariah drops his last name, he’s done something so wrong that it’s as if the Captain wants to forget their familial bond. ‘Detective Novak is for when he’s achieved something in his work or when Zachariah is trying to remind him of his ties. But when it’s ‘cousin,’ or worse, when Zachariah just calls him by his given name? That’s when his great uncle wants something from him, something Castiel knows he’s not going to like.

“Castiel!” he calls again, and now it’s closer. He’s striding across the room, his presence filling the precinct. “May I have a word, cousin?”

Castiel’s heart drops even further. _Cousin. This does not bode well._ He stands, nodding to Zachariah. “Sir.”

Zachariah’s just a foot away now. He’s just a little too close for comfort. He smiles, showing all his white teeth, and leans closer. “Come now, cousin.” His breath is sharp against Castiel’s face. “We’re family, aren’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel replies carefully.

“Well!” Zachariah’s face changes to something friendlier, somehow without moving a muscle. “You’ll remember that when the time comes, won’t you?”

“Sir?”

Zachariah claps a hand on his shoulder. “We’re all part of a plan, Castiel. Your part will become clear, sooner than you might expect.” He turns and stalks back across the room to his own office, leaving Castiel gaping in his wake.

 _What was that about?_ He sits in his chair, shuffling papers without looking at them as he tries to piece together what Zachariah had meant.

But no matter how he twists and turns his uncle’s words in his head, every configuration seems to be missing a crucial part.

He sighs and tries to focus on the paperwork in front of him, but his mind keeps returning to Zachariah’s words.

Being a Milton does have its perks, though, and no one questions him when he walks out just a few hours later, making sure to wait until Zachariah’s led a new judge out for lunch with an arm thrown across his shoulders.

He signs out a squad car, leaving the rather vague notation of “research” in the ‘reason vehicle needed’ column of the paperwork.

As he drives, he thinks about his cousin.

Uriel had always been impatient, too hasty, and too focused on the black and white. His political views had been extreme, focused on keeping what he believed was theirs and on protecting the interests of the family. Castiel had been nervous when they’d been paired up at the station, but Uriel and he had always been close as children. 

Castiel’s childhood was a lonely one, despite his family’s size and close relationships. Uriel had been the only one of his cousins who’d been close enough in age to provide companionship, and they’d spent many days together as children. Uriel had been acerbic, bitingly funny, but as he aged to adolescence and adulthood that biting sarcasm had deepened into a sort of dark cynicism and world-weariness that Castiel didn’t recognize.

He pulls into the parking lot, checking to make sure his badge is inside his pocket.

He still can’t quite believe it, despite seeing the news reports and the evidence and Uriel’s absence from his life. He still can’t believe that one of his family is here, behind bars.

 _We’re supposed to protect the laws_ , he thinks angrily as he locks the car and starts towards the door. _Uriel, what have you done?_

Meg meets him at the door, timing suspiciously impeccable as always. She smirks at him, looking him up and down, then leans close and kisses his cheek. “Hey, Clarence. Good to see you here in my humble place of business. Why so glum?”

Meg has always reminded him a little of Balthazar, and the warmth she makes spread in his chest forces a smile on his face.

“That’s better.” She grins back, her smile sharp as a knife. “Now, your cousin’s being brought in for, um, some sort of illness, I guess. But we’ve got some time, you and I.”

“You ever miss the old days, Meg?” he asks her, suddenly reminded of the angry young girl he’d met his first day of freshman year.

Her smile softens a little, a chink showing in her armor. “I dunno, those days were kinda rough. Now I’m _employed_ , which _sucks,_ and you’re hanging out with dirty cops–which is actually all manner of hot, by the way– so I don’t know. It’s not so bad.”

There's a knock on the wall, and a man gestures them forward.

"Showtime." Meg pushes off the wall. "You know, Clarence, we should get a pizza some time. It's been too long."

He smiles at her fondly. "Perhaps. Only a pizza, though."

"What, you don't wanna play pizza man?" Her smirk is teasing this time, and he wonders at how he can read her so clearly despite his trouble reading anyone else, and for the thousandth time wonders if he was right to breaks things off with her years ago. _No,_ he thinks as she gives the guard a slow once-over. _We're better friends than we ever were lovers._

The man leads them to a room far from the main hallway and opens the door, ushering them in with a grunted _ten minutes._ The door shuts behind the three of them with a click, and Castiel takes a deep breath before raising his eyes to meet his cousin's.

Uriel is sitting at a table, handcuffed, but still managing to look both bored and dangerous at the same time.

Castiel lets out a long breath and steps forward. "Uriel."

"Castiel." Uriel's voice is deep, slow. "Come to see what happens to those who are betrayed?"

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, fighting the guilt that's coursing through him. "We were nearly brothers, once. Pay that at least enough respect to tell me the truth. It was you who betrayed _us,_ Uriel."

Uriel leans forward, suddenly. "And what was there to betray, Castiel? A bureaucracy too bloated to carry its own weight? A family that would rather eat itself alive than chase any true justice? I did what I did to help us, Castiel. The justice of Lucifer is swift, uncompromising, and without the chains that hold us down in the force." He smiles and it's dark, assessing. "You really don't understand, do you?" He leans forward further. "Poor little Castiel, always too obedient. I'm not the only one, you know. You'll see."

Cas shakes his head. "I don’t think so."

Uriel looks at him with something like pity in his gaze. "You should be careful, Castiel. Your precious family is rotten through." He stands and turns to the guard who's been watching them through the conversation. "I would like to return to my cell."

Castiel watches him walk back out the door of the room, head held high, and can’t seem to catch his breath around the pounding in his ears and his throat. _It’s not just Uriel. It’s– it could be anyone. Or everyone._  

He’s in a daze as Meg leads him back out to the parking lot, picking up his gun from security and getting wanded. Meg’s watching him carefully, like she would an injured bear, as he gets to his squad car.

“Hey, Clarence?” she asks, more cautious than he’s seen her in years. “You good?”

He nods shortly, and she keeps her eyes on him, filled with something like worry, and he can’t face it.

He shuts the door and drives away.

The rain’s falling harder now, and Castiel’s mood matches the weather nicely. He can feel a black cloud of despair and anger hovering over him. All he wants is to be warm and home and to not know about his family’s dark secrets and betrayals.

The car shudders suddenly under him, letting out a screech and then a cloud of something, and Castiel grips the wheel tightly. He guides it to the shoulder and jumps out into the rainy dusk. His heart pounds in his chest as he watches white smoke pour from under the hood.

 _Should have taken Dean up on that maintenance lesson,_ he thinks, not a little hysterically. 

The smoke clears and he steps closer, cautious, and holds a hand over the hood. There's no heat coming off the metal, so he reaches in the open front door and pops the hood, propping it up and leaning over the tangle of machinery.

Reaching in his pocket, he pulls out his rarely-used cell phone. _I’ll call the station. They should be able to send someone to pick me up,_ he thinks as he looks down the long stretch of empty road, not a house or building in sight.

He hits the power button and the screen brightens, a battery with an unhappy face blinking across the screen. “CHARGE BATTERY NOW,” reads the screen, and his heart sinks.

He's staring forlornly into the smoking engine, dead phone clutched in his hand as the rain soaks deeper into his coat when there's the low growl of a car approaching. He ignores it at first until it pulls up beside him and stops.

Castiel looks up at the driver, who's rolled the window down, and meets green eyes that make his heart stutter in his chest.

"Need a lift?"


	15. Friday, November 30 (Dean)

It's been a long day, and Dean is ready to be home. He'd had to work the desk all day instead of working on cars because that damn temp was out _again_.

Then Sam had called, telling him how happy he was at school and how he might not make it back till Christmas Eve and could Jess come too, and while he’s happy for Sam and all, he’d been kind of looking forward to time with his brother.

He's driving towards home in the drizzle, mentally listing out what he needs to make a really sweet burger for dinner when he sees lights pulled to the side of the road.

At first he thinks of driving by, but then he sees the open hood and the smoke and the figure leaning over the engine and slows.

It’s a police car, which is almost enough to make him blow right by, but then he sees the trenchcoat and smiles, rolling down the window.

"Need a lift?" He asks, taking in Castiel's exhausted expression and soaked clothing.

Cas nods, sighing, and gestures at the car. “My car seems to have broken down, but I don’t have a working cell phone. If you could just give me a ride to town, I can alert the station the car needs to be towed.”

Dean makes a dismissive noise and pulls ahead, parking in front of Cas’s car. He gets out and walks to the hood, shielding his eyes from the pouring rain with a raised hand. “Dude, I’m a mechanic. I’m not going to leave you with a fucked up car. Let me take a look.”

He pops the hood and digs around, occasionally glancing up at Cas’s darkened face and clenched fists.

 _Dude’s stressed,_ he thinks as he examines the electrical connections. _Must be the case._

There’s nothing he can do for the car tonight, he realizes. There’s a part that’s snapped, and while the car _might_ run long enough to make it to the station, it’s not a sure bet by any stretch.

He looks up from the raised hood and frowns. "Dude, you okay?"

Cas is hovering, eyes on Dean's hands, but his gaze is distant.

"Cas?"

He jerks, meeting Dean's eyes. "Yes, I'm-- I'm fine." 

Dean wipes his hands on a rag and turns to Cas. "You're a million miles away, Cas. And you look like somebody killed your cat or something."

Cas's brow wrinkles. "I don't have a cat, Dean."

"Yeah, I know, buddy. It's a-- you know what. Never mind." He closes the hood and turns to Cas. "I just mean you look upset."

Cas's eyes widen, nervous. "It's nothing."

"You sure?"

Cas nods, mouth firmly shut.

Dean looks him over, shivering in the soaking rain, and Cas looks so miserable that he decides to let it go, at least for now. He rubs a hand over his face. "Cas, you're gonna freeze trying to get home like that. And that car's not gonna get you anywhere till it can get some serious work done."

Cas shrugs helplessly.

"I live a few miles away. You want to come over and dry off? I got a couch and I can lend you a tee shirt or something while your suit dries."

Cas looks conflicted. "Dean, I-- I don't want to impose--"

"Dude, I live alone and I got nothing but space. My brother--" he swallows. "I'm used to having someone around. It'd be kinda nice, actually."

He gives Cas his best hopeful look and can see the moment the detective gives in.

"All right." He starts toward Dean then hesitates, stopping in front of him. "Thank you."

Dean grins and opens the Impala’s passenger door with a sweeping gesture. Cas’s eyes meet his through the cold rain and after a moment the detective nods and slides into the car.


	16. Friday, November 30 (Castiel)

Castiel knows he shouldn't say yes. 

Dean's a person of interest in an active investigation, even though Cas is certain he's not involved in any crime. He's known Dean only a week, though, and half of that was spent with Dean as a pretty reluctant witness. 

He tries not to even think about how attractive he finds Dean. That's something that will make this even more awkward unless he does all he can to suppress it.

But Dean's looking at him with kind green eyes, the squad car is running but still making a strange noise, and Castiel is very, very wet.

And of all the people he's talked to in this investigation, whether witnesses, suspects or even his own colleagues and family, Dean's the only one who's seemed like he wants to actually _help_. He's been honest with Castiel, given him information freely once he got comfortable, and somehow Cas can't help but trust this man. So he nods and shuts off the squad car’s engine. He gets in Dean’s monster of a car, waiting as Dean slides in beside him and pilots the vehicle through the pouring rain towards a small complex off the main road. Dean makes a few attempts at conversation, but Castiel isn’t really feeling up to pleasantries and Dean gives up quickly.

Dean parks in a nearly-empty lot, Cas silent in the seat beside him.

The rain has slowed during the drive over to barely a drizzle, but his soaked clothes mean Cas's teeth are chattering as he gets out. Dean hurriedly gives him a once over, then shakes his head. "C'mon, let's get you inside and warmed up."

Castiel can only nod gratefully and follow him up the path to the door.

The lobby is warm and dry and Dean leads him down one hallway, then another, before stopping in front of in front of a cheerily red door. He turns to Cas, suddenly awkward. "It's, uh, not much, but it's mine." The cocky mask drops back down and he grins. "I kinda hoped if I ever got you into my apartment you would be a little happier than you're looking now." He unlocks the door, and shoves it open.

Castiel follows him inside, into a worn but comfortable living room, not sure how to respond.

"Lemme grab you some dry clothes, all right?"

Cas nods and tries not to drip on the furniture.

Dean goes into another room and Cas glances around, curious how this man lives.

Pictures hang on one wall, two young boys, mostly, and after a moment Castiel realizes the older one is a young Dean. There's also an older picture of a blonde woman, creased and worn, but lovingly framed, and a few include a dark-haired man, stern and sad in the later pictures.

The whole apartment is a little ragged, but there's something homey and comfortable about it, something that's missing from Castiel's high ceilings and chrome.

He slips off his coat and suit jacket, draping them over a folding chair, and sits carefully on the couch. It’s warm and soft, and he can’t help closing his eyes and sinking into the soft material. His pants are mostly dry and he's trying not to let the water from his dripping shirt and hair soak into the furniture.

"Hey." Dean's voice is quiet and a lot closer than Castiel expected and he looks up blearily into concerned green eyes. "You sure you're all right? Do you want me to call somebody? You're looking a little rough, Cas."

Cas snorts, and it's halfway to a sob as Dean's words percolate through his consciousness. "There's no one to call." He drops his head back down, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes until he sees stars.

The couch shifts, weight dropping beside him, and a warm hand rests on his shoulder. "Cas?"

He looks up again and meets Dean's worried green eyes, and to his horror feels tears pricking in his own. Mortified, he forces them down but it's too late.

"Seriously, Cas, what's up with you?"

His eyes are worried, pleading, and Cas crumbles in the face of Dean's care. Words tumble out, about Uriel's betrayal and Zachariah's hints and Samandriel and Inias fighting every day to keep their personhood against the force of the Milton tide.  He talks about his mother's prodigal return and his brother's rebellion and how no one talks about his father or what they refer to as Anna’s ‘vacation’ except to say there’s nothing to discuss.

At this Dean's eyes soften even further. He sighs, and his hand rubs across Cas's back in slow circles that make Cas lean against the warmth. "I get it, Cas. I've been there. Big expert on fucked up families."

Cas turns to him, emotions churning. “How do you deal with it?”

Dean snorts and picks up the remote. The TV glows to life and a DVD menu flashes. He smirks and hits play. “On a good day, you get to watch Star Wars.” He looks at Cas’s blank face and blanches. “You have– _seen_ it, right?”

Cas shakes his head.

“Oh no, dude. That’s just... not right.” He stands and tosses Cas the dry shirt and sweats. “You sit here, get changed, and get educated. I’ll be right back.” He heads towards the kitchen, grabbing the phone from the wall and dialing with the ease of long practice. “Pepperoni all right with you?”

“On pizza?”

“ _Yes,_ on pizza.” Dean rolls his eyes as Cas nods and starts to unbutton his shirt. “ _Jesus._ ” He turns away when Cas strips it off and starts on the pants, and stays turned while he finishes the order and hangs up. After a few moments he calls, “You decent, Cas?”

“I’m clothed, yes.”

“Good.” He turns, plopping back down beside Cas. “Okay, now that’s Darth Vader. He’s a bad guy now, but he started off good. And don’t ask where I know that from. We don’t talk about those movies.”

Cas nods despite having understood less than half of Dean’s sentence and settles back against the couch, dry and warm now in Dean’s clothes. He’s exhausted, worn out from emotions and driving and from baring his soul to someone who’s basically a stranger. He lets Dean’s words wash over him in a tide, keeps his eyes on the screen even when Dean pauses to answer the door, and eats the slice of pizza Dean drops in his lap mechanically.

Dean’s voice is soothing, and somehow the sounds of _Star Wars_ are lulling Castiel out of the stress and worry of the day.

He shuts his eyes for just a moment, and he’s sure he’s dreaming a few moments later when there’s a soft chuckle in his ear and the arm across the couch behind him slips down and tightens around his shoulders.


	17. Saturday, December 1 (Dean)

Except for the arm that’s halfway between numb and tingling, Dean’s more comfortable than he can remember being in– well, in a long time. He’s warm, tucked between soft cushions at his back and a warm body at his front and–

_Wait._

He opens one eye, slowly, and is confronted with a faceful of dark hair. It’s soft and he can’t help but nuzzle his nose against it for a moment as he tries to wake his brain up enough to remember where he is and what happened the night before.

He opens the other eye to the bolt of a strong jaw, speckled with dark stubble, and a long, tanned neck, and that’s when he realizes that this is _Cas_ , the _detective_ , and he freezes mid-nuzzle.

His heart’s pounding in his chest, and the night before’s swirling in his mind. 

 _What was I thinking?_  He pulls at the trapped arm, trying to work it out from under Cas without waking the cop, but Cas stirs slightly against him

 _Shit._ _Shit shit shit._ He pulls a little harder but he’s sort of trapped between the back of the couch and Cas. Then Cas wriggles a little closer with a mumbled complaint, body tight against Dean from shoulders to calves. It feels good, too good, and Dean fights the urge to rub his morning wood along the crease of Cas’s ass where it’s pressed against him.

Finally his arm is free and he pulls himself upright and awkwardly maneuvers over Cas. He trips, trying to will his erection down, and stumbles to the bathroom where he leans on the sink, splashing water over his face, and catches sight of himself in the mirror. His face has a crease from the cushions on one side and the pattern of Cas’s borrowed tee on the other, and his eyes are wide, pupils dilated. 

_Fuck._

He sits with a thump on the toilet seat, head buried in his hands.

 _He’s really, really hot_ , whispers a tiny voice in his mind. _And he’s actually kinda awesome._

 _He’s investigating Bobby,_ he retorts. _Three days ago he wanted to arrest me and Bobby both._

 _Not any more. He listened to you. He believed you._ The voice is soothing, tempting.

 _He’s still a cop._ Dean clenches his fists. _The rest of the damn department’s corrupt, who’s to say he isn’t?_

The voice laughs, mocking. _Would he have told you all that if he were one of them?_

Dean’s got no answer to that, so he stands and glares at himself in the mirror for a moment before heading back to the living room and grabbing a pad of paper and a pen. _Went to see what I could do for your ride,_ he writes. _Help yourself to coffee or whatever._

He doesn’t sign it. Instead he sets it on the table beside Cas’s face and tries not to stare too long at the sleeping man. Instead, he just reaches out and brushes a lock of hair off his forehead and stands, heading to the door.

The parts he needs are in stock at the shop and he leaves Bobby a list of what he took before climbing up into the tow truck and driving back to where he’d found Cas the night before.

It’s an easy fix with the right parts and he’s back home with Cas’s squad car on the back of the truck in just over an hour.  He debates whether he should drop the car off and go back to trade the truck for the Impala and decides not to. It’s Saturday, dammit, even if he’s already been to the shop and fixed a car, and he’s going to enjoy it. He just hopes Cas has had the sense to start a pot of coffee.

The apartment’s still dark when he opens the front door and he can’t help a chuckle at the sight of Cas still curled up on the couch. He looks less like a built cop who can take anyone out and more like a lazy cat sprawled out in the sun. Dean shakes his head and goes about his morning business. _He had a rough day,_ he reasons as he cracks twice the usual number of eggs in his pan and puts the coffee pot on the burner. _Guess the guy deserves some shut-eye._

It’s the smell of coffee that finally rouses Cas. The eggs are done, the coffee poured, and Dean’s not sure what else to do. So he sets the mug down next to Cas’s face and starts dividing the eggs onto two plates with toast and bacon alongside.

Cas takes a deep breath, arm flopping out towards the coffee with fingers clenching, then opens his eyes blearily when he doesn’t find the mug quickly enough. He sits up, and Dean snorts.

“Dude, that’s some bedhead you got there.”

Cas just narrows his eyes, picking up the mug and bringing it to his face. He breathes in deeply, shoulders hunched, and his face relaxes in bliss.

Dean laughs out loud at this, but Cas ignores him and sips the coffee. When the mug is nearly empty, Dean sits down carefully beside him. “Your car’s all set. It’s in the lot outside.”

Cas’s fingers clench around the ceramic and he sets it down and turns to Dean. “Dean, I–” he clears his throat. “Thank you. For everything.” He makes a small gesture that encompasses the coffee, the eggs, the car and the couch. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t driven by and stopped for me.”

Dean nods uncomfortably. “Yeah, Cas. Glad I could help.” 

“How much do I owe you?”

Dean shakes his head. “Whoa, whoa. No, I don’t need your money, Cas!”

The cop smirks, looking mostly awake for the first time this morning. “It wouldn’t be my money, Dean. The precinct will give you a check.”

Dean grins back. “Then yeah. I’ll make you up an invoice. All official.”

Cas nods, smiling widely. It’s a good smile, wide and gummy, and his eyes crinkle in the corners and suddenly Dean feels a swell of affection for this weird, sexy guy. He sets his coffee down, meaning to clap Cas on the back or the shoulder or something _manly_ , but instead somehow his hand ends up cupping the detective’s cheek and then there are warm lips on his and Dean’s pretty sure he’s dead or dreaming because never in a thousand years did he think that kissing Cas could be this _awesome_.


	18. Saturday, December 1 (Castiel)

For a moment Cas freezes, Dean’s lips pressed gently against his, as he tries to process what’s happening. But then he feels Dean start to pull back, feels him tensing, and he flails, reaching out to find Dean’s cheeks with his hands. He slides his fingers back into Dean’s hair and twists closer, awkward on the couch as finally, _finally_ , they’re both responding. His whole being is centered in his lips and tongue and fingers as Dean’s lips part against his and he swings a leg over Cas’s lap.

He’s settling in, straddling Cas, hands sliding down the detective’s shoulders when suddenly he freezes and pulls away, leaving Cas confused and beyond speech, panting and staring into Dean’s motionless face.

Slowly Dean reaches out, and Cas breaks from his stupor and turns in time to see Dean’s hand brush over the notebook he’s been carrying around for days in the pocket of the coat draped over the nearby chair.

The trailing hand clenches suddenly, yanking it from the pocket of Cas's trench, and Dean pushes off Cas. He steps back, staring and holding the book in one hand.

Cas sits straighter, confused, and reaches toward Dean who pulls back further. "Dean, what--"

"Where did you get this." Dean's voice is flat.

"I-- it was among my things after visiting a coffee shop-- Dean?" A sudden thoughts strikes him."Dean, are these-- is this yours?"

Dean turns, grabbing his jacket. He moves towards the door and Cas stands quickly, jogging towards him. "Dean, I'm sorry! I didn't know who it belonged to!"

Dean’s fighting to get his arms into the sleeves of the jacket as he stalks towards the door. “That’s mine, Cas. My _private_ stuff. And you just had it _in your coat_? What, is it _evidence?_ Am I still a suspect? Or you just get a kick out of looking at things that aren’t meant for you?” 

"No, I found it at my brother’s shop! Your writing-- it made me think about my life. It helped me solve the case--"

They're at the door now, and when Dean turns Cas can see the embarrassment and hurt that are warring on his face. "They're just useless doodles, Cas. Just-- leave it alone, okay? Let me go." He pulls his arm from Cas's grip and yanks the door open.

"You have a gift, Dean," Cas says, helplessly. "I'm sorry if I saw things I shouldn't have."

Dean hunches and he pauses a moment, as if considering coming back, but he squares his shoulders after a few seconds and says, "I can't deal with this right now, Cas." He takes a deep breath. "You got everything you needed from me for the case, right? so just– go solve it and don’t fuck with me."

Cas nods silently, still a little shellshocked at Dean’s sudden change, and gathers his trench and his bag and slides on his shoes. He's still wearing Dean's sweats and tee, his own clothing drying in the bathroom, but he does as Dean asks. He's full of guilt and frustration and he's not quite sure what he did wrong, but he gets in the car (which runs more smoothly than it ever has) and pulls out of Dean's parking lot.

The last thing he sees in the mirror is a pair of hurt-filled green eyes watching him leave from the doorway.

Cas drives home in a daze, hands clenched around the steering wheel as he navigates by memory. Dean’s words are roiling in his mind, and Dean’s betrayed face is too much like his cousin Uriel’s for comfort. He parks poorly, slamming the car door behind him, and makes his way up to his lonely, cold apartment.

Henry is out of the reeds for once, and his large eyes watch Castiel’s movements as he deposits his coat in the closet and his shoes by the door. Finally, Cas slumps on the couch and drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispers to the motionless fish. ”Perhaps I’m better off alone, like you.” The thought depresses him, and he stands, moving to the table where the case files are still laid out from the day before.

Uriel’s comments made him think, before this whole mess with Dean, and he flips through the pages to try and recapture his enthusiasm for the case.

Now that he knows (or at least suspects) that Uriel wasn’t acting alone, he’s got a new lens through which to view the whole case. Suddenly, it’s not an isolated event, a strange drug case in a void. No, it’s part of a larger pattern.

The pieces are starting to come together, and he’s laying pages out across the table’s surface when a knock at his door jolts him from his thoughts.

_Who could that be?_ he thinks as he stands. Part of him, a small part, hopes it’s Dean behind the door, contrite and ready to continue what they’d started earlier that morning. _Dean doesn’t even know where I live_ , he argues, but the voice stays hopeful as he turns the knob and pulls the door open to find–

“Uncle?”

It’s Zachariah, dressed more casually than he would be at the station, holding a bottle of wine loosely in one hand. “Castiel!”

He’s cheerful, smile wide and eyes narrow. Castiel stares for a moment, before hurriedly stepping back and ushering his uncle and superior into the apartment.

Zachariah glances around, smile still plastered to his face, and lets out a laugh. “Castiel, I know we pay you enough, and you have your trust. You don’t have to live like a plebeian.” When Castiel is silent, he shakes his head. “But then, you always did admire the common man.” He sets the wine on the table, glancing through the papers strewn across its surface.

“Do you need something from me, sir?” asks Cas, trying to regain his footing in the conversation.

Zachariah turns the full force of his attention on him, and Castiel fights to keep his eyes on the older man’s. Their gazes lock, and Zachariah leans over to clap a hand on his shoulder. “I see you’re working hard, even on Saturday.” His voice is approving. “And you’ve been asking some questions.”

Castiel nods warily. “I’ve been trying to solve the case, sir.”

“No need to stand on formality! We’re just two members of a family discussing family business, right?” He picks up a sheet of paper, continuing in a conversational tone, “And of course, you’ve always been a loyal member of this family. One of the most loyal, actually. I’m sure you would want to stay that way, wouldn’t you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “There are certain–benefits, shall we say? to being a Milton in the department. I’m sure you’ve noticed them. Things move more quickly when you’re part of the family.”

“I– what are you implying, Uncle?”

“I’m not implying anything, Castiel. I just want to make sure you’re aware of what you might be missing out on.”

“Was Uriel missing out?”

Zachariah lets out a full-bellied laugh at that, clapping Castiel once more on the shoulder. “Uriel has never been my ideal successor, Castiel. You know that. He’s hasty and he’s not cautious. There was a test, and he didn’t pass it.”

“The bribes?”

“He failed, that’s all you need to know.” Zachariah turns to the door. “Think about what I said, Castiel. And remember where your allegiances lie.”

“They lie with what’s right, Uncle. With the law.”

“Is that so.” Zachariah shakes his head. “And that comes before family?” He waits for a moment and when Castiel doesn’t answer he shakes his head. “You need to learn to make the hard choices, Castiel. Nothing is as black and white as you would like to believe.”

The door shuts behind him, leaving Cas even more conflicted than before.

He spends Sunday looking through case files, even sneaking into the office to bring home old cases relating to the history of the Sioux Falls mob. He’s got a hunch, after talking to Uriel and after his recent odd encounters with Zachariah, but it’s one he’d really rather be sure about before he takes any action. He’s not sure whether he’s hoping to find evidence or not, but once he’s laid out all the files of encounters with Lucifer things start to get clearer.

The first thing he realizes is that the Milton family and the Abramovich family are connected. Not just connected by their interest in law and lawbreakers, but by blood. No one has seen Lucifer in nearly forty years, though all reports indicate he’s still the one running things in the family. But once, long ago, he’d been a detective in this very department. 

Castiel’s always known his family had been in the force for generations. His mother Anna is a lawyer just across the way, and her father had worked alongside his siblings Zachariah and Naomi for years before his death.

What he hadn’t realized, though, was that it went a generation further.

Their father, Michael, had a younger brother who by all accounts had worshipped him and followed in his footsteps. He’d joined the force and had made many arrests under the direction of their father.

But something had gone wrong, back then. Some split or schism in the family had driven young Lucifer from his father and brother, driven him to change his name and disappear into the seedy underbelly of Sioux Falls.

_And now the rest of the family is joining him_ , Castiel thinks with as sinking sensation of horror. _Uriel and Zachariah want to give him free reign over this city, and even over the police department itself. And they want me to join them._

There’s a moment, just a moment, when it’s tempting. When he thinks about the criminals who go free because of technicalities and botched paperwork, and about the amount of time they spend fighting Lucifer’s lackeys. _If he promised to follow some laws–_

He closes the file with a slam, his coffeecup teetering precariously. _No. I can’t do it. I can’t join them in bringing down all that I’ve stood for._

He pulls out another folder and hunts through it, shaking fingers closing around a business card from a case that’d gone federal a few years ago, and he picks up the phone.

“Henricksen,” answers a gruff voice, and Castiel takes a deep breath.

“Agent Henricksen, this is Detective Castiel Novak.”

There’s the scrape of a chair across the floor. “Sioux Falls, right? I remember you. We arrested your partner.”

Castiel winces. Despite everything, Uriel’s betrayal still hurts. “Yes. I– I think he may not have been working alone.”

There’s a click and the agent’s voice is suddenly loud, clear and laser-focused on Castiel. “Is that so?” The sound of rustling papers and scratching pencil filters through the line, then he asks, “Could you come down to the field office tomorrow afternoon? We’ve got some theories on that very subject.”

Swallowing, Castiel agrees.


	19. Saturday, December 1 (Dean)

Dean is–

Dean’s embarrassed, when all’s said and done. He’s embarrassed and he’s a little pissed at Cas for keeping the notebook hidden, but mostly at himself. Yeah, this is his private, personal shit, and _yeah_ , maybe he’s a little sensitive about it, but he’s not a thirteen year old girl with a Lisa Frank notebook. He should be able to handle a little discomfort without freaking the fuck out.

He sits on his couch, where he’d woken up warm, rested and comfortable wrapped around Cas just a few hours ago. The couch where they’d kissed, if only briefly.

He drops his head in his hands and jerks back when his forehead encounters paper.

“Fuck.”

He stares at the notebook. 

“ _Fuck._ ” He flips it open, reading through the captions and looking at each drawing. It’s been long enough since he did them or saw them that they’re almost new to him, and he thinks for a moment that maybe he can understand what Castiel meant when he said they were– well, good or whatever. The earliest drawings of Sam and Jo make him smile, missing his brother and surrogate sister.

He freezes in his seat near the end when he’s just before the pages from Thanksgiving.

There’s a drawing of a man wearing a long coat, the lines of his shoulders tense. He doesn’t remember this one; he rarely does when they’re not someone he knows.

The text below reads _He looks like he’s having a rough day. I wonder how he knows the coffee guy? Seems like they know each other pretty well. Maybe they’re brothers, since I’ve definitely pulled that trick on Sammy a few times. Never got him in trouble with the FBI, though, so maybe I need to up my game. I hope he finds something to make him happy, because it doesn’t look like he’s smiled much lately. But I bet he’s got a nice one._

It’s Castiel. It has to be Castiel.

They’ve crossed paths before, and Dean reads the description again, more slowly. Knowing Cas now, knowing about his life and his family, he can’t help but wonder at his description. It’s true Cas hasn’t had much to smile about lately. But when he’d smiled at Dean’s jokes, the world had brightened a little.

Dean shakes his head. _Turning into a fucking middle school girl._ He slams the notebook closed and throws himself down on the couch, arms above his head and legs hanging over the edge.

Something flutters down beside him, dislodged from the book.

It’s a sheet off a notepad, folded and crinkled a little on the corners. The top reads “Sioux Falls Police Department” in official-looking lettering, with a phone number and address.

Below that, though, is a drawing.

It’s not one of his, Dean can tell immediately. It’s cartoonish, the face lopsided and the freckles in a nearly-gridlike array across the nose. But– Dean looks closer–the nose has a familiar slight curve, the lips full, the eyes wide. Despite the awkward proportions and the smudged pen, there’s no doubt. 

It’s a drawing of Dean.

And below that, in cramped cursive, it reads, _Dean Winchester. He made me laugh._

 


	20. Friday, December 7 (Castiel)

It’s done.

He closes the door behind him, leaning against the hallway wall and breathing deeply as the adrenaline that’s been flowing through his system drains out of him all at once.

He’s made his choice. He’s gone up against his uncle, his boss, and the head of his family all rolled into one balding shark of a man, and he’s won.

And now because of him, Agent Henricksen of the FBI is about to leave for the Sioux Falls Police Department to arrest one Zachariah Milton for embezzlement, conspiracy, and a host of other charges.

He pushes off the wall and sighs. It’s been nearly a week since Zachariah’s visit to his apartment and since he realized what the Captain was asking of him.

The agent in question passes by on his way to the garage and pauses in front of Castiel. “You did the right thing, Detective,” he says quietly. “It’s not easy, picking what’s right over what’s expected of you.”

Cas smiles at him tiredly. “Thank you, Agent Henricksen.”

The man nods and holds out a hand. “If you ever think about leaving your precinct and going Federal, you give me a call, all right?”

I may have to, after all this, realizes Cas, thinking about the number of Zachariah’s close friends and family who he works with each day. He replies, “I will. Thank you.” He grips Agent Henricksen’s hand, shaking it firmly, then watches him leave the building with a team falling in behind him.

He hasn’t been into the office all week. Instead, he’s called in sick every day for the first time in years and spent the time researching with the FBI. He’d felt a little bad when his mother had called and offered to bring him soup, but he’d faked a cough and turned her down, saying he’d made his own.

The only person he’d told the truth to was Balthazar, who’d reappeared suddenly and opened his coffee shop again as if nothing had happened. Castiel had driven by one day, seen the lights on and hadn’t been able to resist stopping in. And there Balthazar had been, looking better than he had in years. He’d taken one look at Cas and stepped around the counter to pull him into a tight hug.

Castiel had held him back and spilled the whole story of Zachariah and Uriel and Dean and everything that had happened in the weeks since they’d last seen each other, and Balthazar had nodded and told him he’d done the right thing. Castiel had smiled, feeling lighter than he had in days. Balthazar might be a sarcastic, flaky brat sometimes, but when Castiel needed him he was there. And when it came to family betrayal and pulling one over on Zachariah? Somehow he’d known his brother would understand.

He can’t face going to the precinct, not for a few days at least, and the idea of going home and sitting alone on his couch all weekend is not at all appealing. So he picks up his briefcase and heads to his squad car, driving instead into town and parking outside Sip.

The cafe is busy this time of the afternoon, with a long line of business people with smartphones and suits lined up to get their lattes and their pastries. He hangs back, behind the line, and turns on his own phone for the first time since Zachariah’s visit a week earlier. The screen flashes and the device starts beeping loudly and Castiel struggles to silence it before warm hands pull it out of his own and hit a few buttons to make the noises stop. He looks up into the face of Dean Winchester, who’s smiling at him from just a little too close.

“Still struggling with technology?” he asks, still holding Cas’s phone.

Cas stares at him for a moment, then plucks the phone from his hand and returns it to his pocket. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.” Dean’s smiling still, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, but it’s a little more cautious than it’d been at first. “How’ve you been?”

Cas smiles back, tentatively. “I’m fine.”

“He’s been bloody unbearable, is what he’s been,” chimes in a voice from behind him, and Cas rolls his eyes as Balthazar slings an arm over his shoulders. “Moping about some man he met. It’s been positively dull.”

Dean’s caution evaporates and his grin turns wicked. “Is that so?”

“Balthazar.” growls Cas, feeling his cheeks flush. “I believe you have customers to attend to.”

“But Cassie, this is so much more entertaining!” But he pulls away with a pout. “Enjoy your little–whatever it is you do, boys. And do stop by if you need a coffee in the morning.” The joking tone drops from his voice as he leans closer to Castiel. “And Castiel, thank you. For doing the right thing.”

Cas nods, unable to say more, and Balthazar retreats behind the counter.

“So that’s your brother, huh?” asks Dean.

Rolling his eyes, Cas moves to a table in a corner and sits. Dean follows and sprawls in the chair beside him.

Dean clears his throat. “Look, Cas...” He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I, uh, I was outta line the last time we–” he searches for the right word, then settles on “–hung out.”

“Dean, I–”

Dean shakes his head. “Just let me finish, okay? I, uh, don’t know if I can start again if you stop me.” His smile flits from cocky to vulnerable and back again, before dropping off his face. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

Cas stares, silent.

“I just– I panicked, Cas. I don’t do this. I don’t show people my crap. The drawing and the writing– it’s what I do when I’m bored, or to let off steam or whatever. It’s not– it’s not important, or anything.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s something my mother did, too, so–.” He pulls up his hands. rubbing them over his eyes, avoiding Cas’s eyes. “So I don’t know why I freaked out. And I’m fucking sorry.”

“It’s all right, Dean.” Cas watches him carefully. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Dean looks like he wants to argue, but then his gaze turns inquisitive. “Cas, why– why did you even keep it? It’s just some crap I fool around with when I’ve got nothing to do.”

“Dean.” Cas leans forward, serious. “It’s not... crap. I couldn’t just throw it away. These images, these stories– the artist put time and effort and himself–yourself– into it. I couldn’t have thrown away something that showed some of someone’s soul like this does.”

“What?” Dean’s staring at him, mouth open. “I don’t– Cas.” His face is open, vulnerable, his voice pleading, and Cas isn’t sure what else to say. Finally Dean pulls himself together, the mask closing over his features a little, and clears his throat. “So, um, that drawing.”

“Which drawing?”

“The one you did. The one that’s, uh, of me.”

“Yes? What about it?”

“Why’d you draw me, Cas?”

Cas sighs. “Dean, you made me think. I told you that. You helped me make some important decisions, both with what you said and with what you wrote, though I didn’t know it was you at the time.” he shakes his head. “I turned in my uncle to the FBI this week.”

Dean blinks at the seeming non sequitur. “I–what?”

“He was working with the mob. I had to do it.” Cas closes his eyes briefly. “I’d rather not discuss it.” There’s a pause, then he continues. “But Dean, you were right. I haven’t been happy in a long time.”

Dean can’t help leaning closer, his body urging him to give comfort if he can.

“And you– talking with you, kissing you–you made me smile. You made me remember that I need something for myself. Not just for my family, not just for my job, but for me.”

“And, uh, what? I’m it?” Dean’s looking overwhelmed, flustered, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face.

“Yes, Dean. Or, well, I’d like you to be.” He can feel the flush rising in his neck but he holds Dean’s gaze.

“Okay then.” Dean stands, suddenly decisive.

“What?”

“Okay. Let’s give this a try.”

“Now?” Castiel looks around, spotting Balthazar leaning against the wall and grinning. He makes a shooing motion with his hand and Cas stands automatically.

“Yeah, Cas.” He glances at Balthazar as well and narrows his eyes. “I don’t really want to have this conversation in front of your brother, if that’s all right.”

Balthazar rolls his eyes but doesn’t move, and Castiel nods. “I see your point.”

“Then come on.” Dean leads the way out, and as they brush past Balthazar he whispers be safe, Cassie, and presses a condom into Castiel’s hand. Cas shoves it back, whispering back, that’s not my brand, Balthazar, and stalks out after Dean to the sound of his brother’s surprised laugh.

He follows Dean to the parking lot, resigning himself to leaving his squad car there for now, and pauses by Dean’s car. “Dean.”

Dean looks up from where he’s fiddling with his keys and starts when he sees Cas less than a foot away. He runs his tongue over his lower lip and replies in a low voice, “Yeah Cas?”

“I’d like to kiss you. If that’s all right.”

Dean beats him to it, leaning forward and catching Cas’s lips with his own, and Cas smiles into the kiss, spinning Dean until he’s pressed against the door of the Impala. After a few seconds Dean pulls away, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, and says, “Maybe we should move this to my place.”

Cas nods and palms Dean’s ass, squeezing gently as he dips in to kiss Dean’s neck. “I like the sound of that.”

There’s still a lot of conversation to be had, but right now, this is pretty much what he wants.

 


	21. Friday, December 7 (Dean)

The car ride is interminable.

They hit every light along the way, and Dean’s driving isn’t helped by Cas’s hand sliding slowly higher and higher up his thigh.

By the time he slams the Impala’s door and turns, Cas is already looming in front of him. In seconds, Dean’s hands are in Cas’s collar, wrapped in that stupid coat, and Cas’s are scrabbling at the fabric of Dean’s overshirt where it’s rucking up at his waist. He presses Cas back, releasing the coat with one hand and groping for the doorknob blindly. They burst through Dean’s door in a swirl of fabric and heat and Dean kicks it shut behind them.

“ _Dean,_ ” Cas gasps into Dean’s neck as he slides a hand down the back of Dean’s waistband.

“Yeah Cas?” he replies with a shudder as fingers curl around his ass. 

“Can we move this to the bedroom?”

Dean pulls back a fraction of an inch to catch Cas’s eyes and has to keep from groaning at the sight. The cop’s eyes are narrowed and his brows are drawn together, lips swollen and pink framed by cheeks darkened by flush and stubble. He’s breathing hard and Dean can’t help but kiss him thoroughly against the fridge before breaking away and grabbing Cas’s free hand. The other hand slips out of Dean’s pants to clench in empty air as he follows Dean so closely Dean can feel Cas’s breath against his own neck.

The bedroom seems miles away, further than could possibly be legal, and Dean’s got to stop twice to kiss Cas again in the hallway. They’re just feet from the door when Cas yanks Dean against him and buries his face in Dean’s neck, rolling his hips against Dean’s obvious erection and groaning low in his throat.

Dean jerks against him and wraps an arm around his waist, sliding it under the coat while the other shoves it off Cas’s shoulders to crumple on the floor.

Cas’s hands are busy too, pushing at Dean’s shirts until they press into bare skin at the hips where his jeans hang a little loose. His fingers curl into the fabric, pulling Dean forward and through the bedroom door until they’re standing over the bed. He pushes Dean back until his calves hit the side of the bed and then slides to his knees, unbuttoning Dean’s fly on the way down and yanking his jeans and boxers to his knees.

Dean can’t do anything but stare down as Cas looks up at him, eyes wide, then leans forward just enough to lap at the head of Dean’s cock. He licks the flat of his tongue across the slit, then wraps his lips around it and slides down excruciatingly slowly. Dean gasps, eyes rolling backwards in his head as Cas’s tongue works along the vein on the underside of his shaft. He moves further down and Dean’s hands fumble for purchase behind him, then slide up the muscled ridges of his shoulders ( _and I’m gonna have to get a closer look at that tattoo,_ he thinks, too distracted for the moment) and come to rest in Cas’s hair. He tries not to pull, but he can’t help his fingers tightening in the soft strands when he sees Cas’s hand rubbing along the hard line in his own pants.

He’s turned on, _really_ turned on, and suddenly he wants nothing more than Cas’s mouth on his before he comes embarrassingly quickly. So he tugs gently on Cas’s head, hands sliding down to cup the sides of the man’s face and nudge him back.

Cas resists for a moment, cheeks hollowing as he slides back millimeter by millimeter, then releases Dean with an audible _pop_.

Dean’s hands slip to Cas’s shoulders and he yanks him upwards, scrabbling to undress him as quickly as possible. Cas reciprocates, pulling Dean’s shirt over his head and tossing the overshirt aside. Cas’s pants join Dean’s on the floor as they both step out of the fabric and fall together onto the bed.

Dean pulls Cas on top of him where he’s laying diagonally across the bed, thrusting up as their cocks line up and rub together and both men groan. Cas plants his elbows on either side of Dean’s face and drops his head down until their foreheads press against each other. He rolls his hips forward, meeting Dean’s eyes as he pants into his mouth.

“Cas,” Dean moans, drowning in Cas’s eyes as pleasure rushes through him. “I need you to– _fuck_ –”

“Then _move_ ,” Cas responds, shoving him backwards. Dean can’t help a whimper at Cas’s usually low voice that’s gone down half an octave from having Dean’s cock down his throat. He pushes himself awkwardly up the bed, not even caring what he looks like, and Cas follows closely behind until Dean’s head is on the pillow and Cas is looming above him.

“ _Cas_...” Dean’s voice is a whine and the only word he can seem to form is the other man’s name. He’s desperate to pulls Cas as close as he can, to press as much skin to skin as is possible. Cas is barely more put together, hair sticking up and cheeks flushed as he gives Dean a wide-eyed smile and smashes their lips together in a rushed and sloppy kiss.

Dean’s hand slides down from its grip on Cas’s ribs, wiggling between them until he can wrap it around Cas’s cock and give it a long, slow pull. Cas shudders and groans, thrusting against the motion, and Dean’s stomach flutters with warmth at the way Cas relaxes into his hold. His other hand slips down Cas’s back to curl around his ass, fingers teasing at his crack, and Cas writhes and presses upwards into the motion.

Cas’s breath is coming faster, each pant a wave of hot air against Dean’s cheek, and Dean turns his head to catch his mouth in a firm kiss. Cas thrusts once more then freezes, eyes squeezing shut. He pulls his mouth from Dean’s and buries it in Dean’s shoulder as a shiver passes over his body. Dean’s hand starts to move across Cas’s cock but it’s halted by a firm hand around his wrist. 

“ _Wait._ ” Cas’s voice is _wrecked_ , deep and rumbling against Dean’s ear, and Dean has to fight to keep from jerking his hips into the sound. “I want– Dean–” He slides his fingers down Dean’s back, squeezing his ass, and Dean gets the picture real quickly.

“I don’t– _Cas–_ ” He lets his head fall back on the bed, fighting the wave of arousal that threatens to swamp him.

“I want you,” Cas growls in his ear. “I want to be closer to you, Dean.”

Dean takes a moment. There’s something here, something he hasn’t felt in– well, in fucking _ages_. And the idea of feeling that cock inside him? Well, he’s not going to say no to what’s looking like awesome sex, he thinks, ignoring the voice in his head that’s thrilled to get Cas so fucking close to him for more reasons than just the sex. “Yeah,” he says breathlessly, eyes darkening as his mind starts running through the possibilities. “Yeah, okay.” 

He reaches out, fumbles at the drawer of the bedside table until his hands hit a foil wrapper. He tosses the condom at Cas then pulls out a bottle of lube. Dean scoots back, pulling himself out from under Cas just enough to pull his legs up and run a finger over his hole.

Cas moves back, kneeling above him, and watches with wide, lust-blown eyes as Dean slicks lube across his fingers and strokes the tip of one from the back of his balls down with a shudder. Cas shivers with him, hand clenching where it rests on Dean’s raised ankle. His thumb strokes across the bone of Dean’s ankle unconsciously and Dean’s eyelids flutter as he breaches himself with a fingertip. Cas can’t look away, eyes fixed on the finger that’s burying itself up to the first knuckle, then the second. Dean groans a little, rolling his hips as he slides his index finger in beside his middle and spreads them quickly, hissing a little at the stretch, and Cas reaches out almost unconsciously to trace Dean’s rim with a finger. Dean scissors his fingers, thrusting his hips towards the other man and meeting his eyes. 

“Come on,” he pants, hand brushing Cas’s as he pulls nearly all the way out. Cas’s finger slides between Dean’s and he lets out a long moan as the warm heat of Dean’s hole closes around his digit.

“Dean Winchester,” he growls, “Do you know what you do to me?”

Dean grins what he hopes is a seductive smile, but he’s pretty sure it’s more of a goofy grin and he can’t even make himself care. He pulls out his fingers a little too fast, lube streaking across the sheets, and props himself up on an elbow until he can wrap the hand around Cas’s hip and tug.

Cas looks like he’s holding back a smile under the lust in his eyes and he shuffles a little closer, leaning down to slip a hand under Dean’s neck and pull him into a firm kiss. Pulling away, he whispers in his deep rumble of a voice, “You make me feel out of control, Dean.” He picks up the condom from the bed, tearing the packet and rolling it on quickly. “It’s not something I’m accustomed to.” Dean gasps as he presses in, sliding in slowly, making little thrusts and circling his hips as he bites his lip. He’s fucking _glorious,_ eyes drifting shut and cheeks reddened, and Dean can’t help burying his fingers in the supple flesh of Cas’s ass, yanking him closer until he bottoms out with a gasp.

He stills, panting, until Dean grunts “ _Move!_ ” and he pulls out just an inch or so and thrusts back in, leaning closer and closer as he rolls against Dean. Dean locks his ankles around Cas’s back and buries his fingers in Cas’s thick hair. Their foreheads press together and Cas pants against him, mouth hanging open, setting a steady pace that’s just a little too slow for Dean. 

Dean tightens his grip with his ankles and takes a deep breath, bracing himself, before executing a move he’d learned from his dad’s training sessions as a kid ( _Don’t think about Dad_ now _,_ he thinks to himself with a mental shudder) and _pushing,_ flipping them in one smooth move with a surprised _ooof!_ from Cas.

He grins down at him, kneeling above Cas and circling his hips around Cas’s cock. Cas stares up at him, eyes narrowing, and wraps warm hands around Dean’s waist, pulling him down until he’s speared firmly on Cas’s cock. His shoulders bunch and Dean’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open, as Cas gets his heels under him and starts snapping his hips up into Dean until the other man falls forward and braces himself on an outstretched arm with a low moan. It takes a few strokes but Dean gets himself under control and starts rolling his hips in counterpoint to Cas’s thrusts. The air is filled with low grunts and moans and the slap of skin-on-skin and Dean can feel a tide rising in him as he bends down further, knees nearly to his chest as he strains to press his mouth to Cas’s. His neglected cock is caught between them, rubbing against their bare stomachs. Cas lets go of Dean’s waist with one hand, sliding it up Dean’s sweat-slick back until it’s cupping the back of Dean’s neck gently despite the force of his thrusts and it’s that little gesture that sends Dean rocketing over the edge. 

“Fuck, _Cas_!” he groans, feeling his body clench and the waves of pleasure intensify as he collapses forward into Cas’s arms. 

Cas speeds up, jackhammering against him and drawing out the end Dean’s orgasm until he freezes and shudders with a sigh of “ _Dean...”_ His hand clenches against Dean’s waist and then releases, stroking the damp skin there in tiny overlapping circles.

Cas falls back on the bed, muscles suddenly turned to jelly, and Dean follows slightly to the side as he slips out. His head lands on Cas’s shoulder and his breath is hot against Cas’s neck. Reaching down, he grabs Cas’s shirt from where it’d landed and uses it to wipe down both their stomachs, then takes the bottle of water Cas hands him from the nightstand with a murmured _Thanks_.

Dean’s arms come up and around Cas, holding him tightly to his chest, and Cas hooks the discarded sheet with his foot and tugs it up until he can catch it with a finger and drape it over them both. Then he nuzzles deeper into Dean’s embrace and closes his eyes, satisfied and comfortable.


	22. Saturday, December 8 (Castiel)

Cas opens his eyes slowly, blinking in the bright light, and for a minute he’s not sure where he is. Then he hears the sound of pencil on paper and he turns to smile at Dean. “Good morning.”

Dean sets the paper aside on the nightstand and reaches out to brush a hand over Cas’s hair. “Dude, your bedhead is the _worst_.” But he leans in and presses a quick kiss to Cas’s lips.

“What are you drawing?” Castiel asks curiously, trying to see the paper past Dean’s shoulder.

Dean reaches for the paper, covering it with his hand, but when Cas narrows his eyes, he laughs uncomfortably and moves his hand back. Cas reaches over him, dropping a kiss on his shoulder as he passes by. He pulls the drawing towards them and scoots back, laying it down carefully on the bed between them. He ignores Dean's blush and examines it closely, groping for his reading glasses from his briefcase on the side of the bed.

Dean runs a hand over his face and whines, "Cas you don't need to look that closely--"

"Dean. I would like to see your work. I can't do that without them."

"Looks better blurry anyway," mutters Dean rebelliously, but he lets Cas pull the paper closer.

It's a sleeping man, hair tousled and back bare, sheet just barely clinging to the dip of his lower back. There's a faint impression of wings across the shoulders, a perfect match for Cas's tattoo. It's simple, clean, and the care evident in every stroke makes Cas's breath stutter in his chest. "Dean, this is--" he takes a deep breath. "Thank you."

Dean smiles at him and sets the drawing aside, pulling Cas in close and closing his eyes. "Thanks, Cas."


End file.
